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The Actor; 



OR, 



A Son of Thespis, 



AN ORIGINAL COMEDY-DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. 



BY 

MILTON NOBLES. 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Librarian's Office, at Washington, 

D. C. , in the year 1891 , by 

Milton Nobles, 

as author and sole proprietor. All rights reserved. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

LEDGER JOB PRINT. 
1891 



A SON OF THESPIS. 

An Onginal Comedy- Drama in Four Acts, 



BY 



iMiivTON Nobles. 



ACT I.— New York City, September, 1861. 

ACTS II, III and IV.— New England, 1879. 



CHARACTERS. 

ACT I. 



WARREN MERRILL, a Banker. 

BERNARD CARROLL, his Partner. 

WILLIAM GOODALL, his Private Secretary, an Actor. 
PHILIP HAWLEY, his Bookkeeper. 
, i A Servant to Merrill. 

[ PHILANDER PHIPPS, a Comedian and Stage Manager. 

PHILLIS, the Banker's Daughter, secretly married to Goodall. 

ACTS II, III, IV.— 18 Years Later. 

WILLIAM GOODALL, now known as F. Junius Betterlon, a "palmy day" 
Tragedian. 

PHILANDER PHIPPS, known as Burton Wallack, a Comedian, companion 
to Betterton. 

COL. TOM ALCHOSTRA, of Texas. 
BERNARD CARROLL. 

ARTHUR MARRIGOLD. 

REUBEN HAWKINS, a Country Bumpkin. 

SOPHOCLES SPOTT, of the private detective firm o( Spott & Bleedem, (successors 
to Ketchum & Workem.) 
MARSHALL STALK, Servant to Mrs. Marrigold. ,,_^ 

PHILLIS GOODALL. oT^^^^^N^ 

DOROTHY GOODALL, her Daughter, aged 17. JHr''''^.^ 

MRS. MADGE MARRIGOLD, a Widow. qrp" /I ipQ« "^^X 

PHOEBE ADAMS. '^^^ * If 

Ladies and Gentlemen, Guests at Marrigold Villa. ^X f v ^ I 

ACT I.— Residence of Warren Merrill, New York City, September, 1861. '2'^ 

ACT II- — 18 years later. A New England Summer Resort. 

ACTS III and IV.— Mrs. Marrigold's Villa. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 

AN ORIGINAL COMEDY-DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 

BY 

NUlvTON NOBLES. 



ACT I. 

Library in Warren 3IerrilTs house, Neiv York City. 

\_Enter Servant, preceding Bernard Carroll. 

Servant. Mr. Merrill is at breakfast, gir. Shall I say to 
him that you are here ? 

Carroll. Yes ; no, on second thought, don't disturb him ; is 
Miss Merrill with him ? 

Servant. No, sir; she breakfasted early and went for a 
ride in the park. 

Carroll. Alone? 

Servant. So far as I know ; yes, sir. 

Carroll. Thank you ; I will await Mr. Merrill here. \_Exit 
Servant c] Riding in the park, eh, and alone ! Possibly. 
These early morning park rides are of a daily occurrence now ; 
strange that her father can be so blind or indifferent. 

[Miter Warren Merrill l. i. e., dressing gown, etc. 

Merrill. [Cordially.] Why, Bernard, this is an unexpected 
pleasure. You haven't favored us often of late. Be seated. 

[They sit. 

Carroll. Thank you. I feel even now that my visit is ill- 
timed and I scarcely know how to apologize for calling at 
such an untimely hour. 

(3) 



4 A SON OF THteSPIS. 

Merrill. Don't mention it, my dear boy. Both Phillis 
and myself have frequently regretted that you of late make 
yourself so much a stranger. 

Carroll. It is better for me that it should be so. 

Merrill. 0, yes, yes ; I understand. But I fancied that in 
your devotion to business and the Bachelor's Club you had 
outlived that fleeting fancy. 

Carroll. There you do me a great Avrong. The feeling that 
I entertain for your daughter is something more than a fleeting 
fancy, as you are pleased to call it. 

Merrill. Pardon me, my dear boy. Nothing could be farther 
from my mind than a wish to make light of your disappoint- 
ment. But you are still young, rich and courted. Your life 
and its triumphs are all before you. 

Carroll. You are very kind. >I do not complain. If I have 
a concern it is for those dearer to me than my own life. 

Merrill. Indeed ! 

Carroll. Mr. Merrill, you have treated me with princely 
generosity. 

Merrill. I have tried to treat you justly. Your father served 
me long and faithfully, and, dying, requested me to see you 
safely started in life. I placed you in a responsible position 
which you filled so entirely to my satisfaction that at the end 
of four years I made you a member of the firm. This was not 
generosity, but justice ; you had earned the position, and since 
assuming it you have by integrity and thoughtfulness relieved 
me of many cares and responsibilities. 

Carroll. I have tried to prove my appreciation of your con- 
fidence, and it is a desire to further emphasize that loyalty to 
your interests which emboldens me to speak upon a subject near 
to both of us. 

Merrill. And that is ? — 

Carroll. The approaching marriage of your daughter with 
this unknown actor, Goodall. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 5 

Merrill. Excuse me, Mr. Carroll ; but I do not quite like 
your tone. So long as I supposed that Phillis was fancy free 
I did not oppose your suit ; indeed, I rather encouraged it. 
But when she told me frankly that your attentions were distaste- 
ful to her, my interest ended. For reasons adequate to me, I 
have determined that my daughter shall select her own life 
partner, provided the one selected be a man of character and 
respectability. 

Carroll. You are frank, sir, which moves me to be equally 
candid in stating at once the object of my unusual visit, which 
you have entirely misconstrued, to my discredit. Last night, 
upon examining the clearing house returns, I discovered that 
we have during the past three months been the victims of 
extensive systematic forgeries. 

Merrill. Forgeries ? \_Enter Servant c. 

Servmit. Your daughter is just returning, sir, accompanied 
by Mr. Goodall. Shall I tell them that you are engaged here ? 

Merrill. No ; say nothing at present. \_Exit Servant c. l. 
Come to my study, Bernard ; we will continue our consul- 
tation there. \_Exit Merrill and Carroll, r. i. e. 

\_Enter Phillis and Goodall, l. c, both in riding costumes. 

Phillis. You are quite sure that you are not neglecting 
business ? 

Goodall. Quite. It's just nine, and I can do nothing at the 
bank until ten. 

Phillis. Then we have a half hour for a nice visit. 

\_Fife and drum outside. 

Goodall. There they go, drumming up recruits. Two of my 
oldest companions, both splendid young actors and noble fellows, 
enlisted as private soldiers yesterday. 

Phillis. Why don't you go to the Avar, too ? 

Goodall. Why ! Because as Venus conquered Thespis, so 
Hymen has vanquished Mars. 

Phillis. Very pretty and very sweet. It's awfully nice of 



6 A SON OF THESPIS. 

you to take your morning ride in the park just as I happen to 
be taking mine. 

Croodall. 0, I'm very thoughtful that way. Besides, it isn't 
every fellow who can enjoy the novelty of clandestine meetings 
with his own wife. \_Tries to caress her. 

Phillis. Please don't speak so loud, and, above all, use a 
little judgment as to the time and place for kissing me. I 
love to hear you call me wife, and I love your tender caresses, 
yet they make me fear and tremble like a guilty thing. 

Goodall. The fault was mine, not yours, not yours. I was a 
strong man, you a confiding girl. It was my duty to have 
waited patiently for the great happiness reserved for me. 
But 0, the fear of losing you ! And then our pleasant banter 
about surprising your father with a secret marriage became a 
temptation to me to make sure of the prize. 

PJnllis. And had I said no it would have ended there, so 
the fault is more mine than yours. 

Groodall. And when it was done, like two children, who had 
robbed the pantry of its choicest jar of jam, we lacked the 
courage to confess. 

Phillis. And now I tremble for what may follow when he 
learns the truth. 

Groodall. Why need he know ? He promised you to me at 
the end of a year's probation. We have but three months to 
wait. Then we can be married all over again. Think of the 
novelty of being twice married to the man of your choice and 
enjoying a second honeymoon all in the space of a year. Your 
father will, of course, feel aggrieved at first ; but in after years 
we will all regard it as a clever lovers' ruse- 

Phillis. I wish I could feel as cheerful. But each day I 
feel more guilty for having deceived so indulgent and loving 
father. \_She dings to him. 

Croodall. Now, sweetheart, don't cry again. You make me 
feel like a brute. It takes all the heart and courage out of 



A SON OF THESPIS. 7 

me. This is the third morning on which you have had a crying 
spell, and I can't stand your tears. 

Phillis. 0, my darling, can you not guess why, for the past 
few days, I have been at times so apparently unhappy? I 
I have tried so hard to be cheerful, too. Will, darling, I have 
shrunk from telling you, but further concealment would be a 
crime. Our father must know the truth of our marriage at 
once. \_She speaks this with her head hidden on his shoulder. 

G-oodall. My sweet wife, forgive me for not better under- 
standing you. I think I now realize my responsibility and see 
plainly the path of duty. There can be but one result, and 
that will be happiness for us all. 

Phillis. Do you still feel so confident ? 

Goodall. More so than ever now. Even should he for a time 
Avithhold his forgiveness, love will find a way to reach his 
heart. We have committed a great folly, but it was not a 
crime. But in any event, we cannot suffer, save in the loss of his 
affection. I shall still have my art, and with it an inspiration 
that I have never known before. Besides, dear, the savings of 
my years of prosperity I have invested in your name. I had 
intended this as a wedding day surprise. 

Phillis. It was like your good, unselfish heart. But you 
will tell our father all to-day. \_They are moving l. 

Goodall. Yes, sweetheart ; I shall tell him all promptly upon 
his arrival at the bank this morning. 

\_Exit Phillis and Goodall l. 2. or i. e. 

Servant. [^Outside l. c] Mr. Merrill is engaged, sir, and 
cannot see you. 

Hawley. \_Outside L.] He will see me ! He must see me ! 
[Servant enters c. followed by Hawley.] I know it's unu- 
sual and unceremonious, but it's an urgent case. Mr. Carroll 
is here ; I saw him enter a half hour ago, and I must see him 
at once. 



8 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Servant. He is engaged at present with Mr. Merrill, in the 
study. 

Hawley. No matter ; take in this card. [^Giives card to 
Servant.] It's as important to him as it is to me. Don't wait ! 
Don't wait ! 
[Servant exits reluctantly r. i. e.; Haayley droip% into a seat. 

Hatvley. It has come at last ! I might have known it, and 
I may thank that actor for it all. Curse him ! I wish I had 
a drop of brandy to steady my nerves. Just as I fancied I had 
found a little favor in her eyes, he comes to dazzle her 
with the tinsel and glitter of his theatrical ways. Curse his 
handsome face ! 0, for a drop of brandy, just one drop ! 

\_Rises, then sinks into a chair as Carroll enters R. 

Carroll. Well, sir, what is the explanation of this ? 

Haioley. Excuse me, sir ; but you are usually so early at 
the bank — I thought that — that — has anything of great impor- 
tance happened, sir ? 

Carroll. Why do you ask ? 

Haioley. Because, sir, since daylight there has been a sullen 
crowd about the bank door, and it is constantly increasing. 

Carroll. [ J.s^'c?e.] My plot is working admirably. [^?owc?.] 
What do they want ? 

Hawley. I don't know, sir ; but it looks very much like a 
run on the bank. 

Carroll. You seem strangely excited. 

Hawley. Why not ? As principal bookkeeper, I am natur- 
ally concerned. I was refused admission to the bank by an 
officer. 

Carroll. Sit down, young man, and keep quiet. The affairs 
of this bank are no concern of yours. But I appreciate your 
anxiety. Let me see ; it is now about six months since I 
first discovered that you were exercising your skill as a pen- 
man in raising the checjues of the firm from small to large 
amounts. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 9 

Hawley. You discovered my first crime. It was a small 
matter of twenty odd dollars, Avhich I honestly intended to 
replace from my month's earnings. Why did you not then 
discharge and punish me ? 

Carroll. Don't speak so loud. I did not expose you for the 
reason that I appreciated the possible value to me of so expert 
a penman's services. 

Haivley. In other words, you have for six months held open 
before me the doors of Sing Sing, while compelling me to rob 
your own firm of a half million dollars, which you have skil- 
fully added to your own private fortune. But it shall go no 
farther. I am not quite dead to the voice of conscience. 
Mr. Merrill took me, a friendless orphan, from the street, edu- 
cated me and placed me in a position to win an honorable 
position in the world, had I possessed the character for which 
he gave me credit. If this firm is wrecked through your 
unparalleled and audacious villainy, with my connivance, I'll 
tell Mr, Merrill the truth, if I end my days in State's prison. 

Carroll. You will do nothing so absurdly foolish. 

Hawley. Yes, I will ; and if you drive me to it, I'll kill you 
and end it on the gallows. I will ; I swear it ! 

[Jump up, strikes table. 

Carroll. Sit down, and don't swear. There is no reason 
why you should end your days in prison or on the gallows. 
True, extensive forgeries have been committed, and they have 
been so committed that they can be easily traced to you. But 
there is absolutely nothing to connect me with the forgeries, 
and the unsupported statements of convicted forgers, fortu- 
nately, have little weight in courts of law. 

[Hawley groans and buries his face m his hands. 

Hawley. Oh ! [groans.^ 

Carroll. Noav, don't be a baby. For two years you have 
been insanely in love with Phillis Merrill. [Hawley looks up 
surprised.^ You see I know your secret thoughts. 



10 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Hawley. True ! true ! And that love, which should have 
been my inspiration, has been my curse. 

Carroll. That's as you choose to make it. You stood as 
good a chance as any one until the present favorite came upon 
the scene. With him safely removed, fortune, honors and 
love may yet be yours. 

Hawley. Removed ! how ? 

Carroll. Disgraced, dishonored and cast adrift. 

Hawley. I am in no state for solving enigmas. 

Carroll The bank of Merrill & Carroll will be wrecked 
this day, through extensive forgeries that have absorbed its 
available capital. Mr. Merrill's infatuation for this vagabond 
actor is so great that four months ago, at my suggestion, he 
authorized him to sign the firm's name to checques for current 
expenses. The rest is easily told. The confidential secretary 
and accepted suitor has robbed his benefactor. 

Hawley. 0, this is a horrible plot ! Goodall is the soul of 
honor. While I have secretly hated him, he has been like 
a brother to me, concealing my shortcomings from Mr. Merrill, 
and trying in every possible way to make me reform my vicious 
habits. 

Carroll. Yet he has robbed you of a woman's love, and 
made you the wretch that you fancy yourself to be. 

Hawley. [Jumping up.'\ True — he has ; curse him, he has. 

Carroll. \_Aside.^ I thought so. \_Aloud, looking at watch.'\ 
It is now 9.30. Go to the bank, and say to any who ask that 
I will be there at 10 sharp. 

Hawley. You will protect me from arrest ? 

Carroll. Yes, of course ; you serve yourself in serving me. 
What could I gain by punishing you ? There, go ! go, now, go. 
[Carroll urges Hawley off c. l.] He was a little more 
fractious than I expected. Men in our business can't afford to 
be troubled with a conscience. [G-oing towards door R. i.] 
Now that I am safely through with him, what can I do with 



A SON OF THESPIS. 11 

him ? That's something of a problem. A brilliant idea ! He 

would make an excellent soldier, in case I should require a 

substitute. 

[Ex. R. I. E. Enter c. l. Philander Phipps, cautiously, hat 

in handJ\ 

Phipps. It's astonishing how these swells make folks wait. A 
lacquey with a ramrod down his back let me in a quarter of 
an hour ago, and then disappeared, leaving me to amuse my- 
self, counting the tiles. \_Enter Servant, r. i. e. 

Servant. 0, you're here ; are you ? 

Phipps. I am, great duke, in p>ropia persona. 

Servant. In what ? 

Phipps. In a hurry. Did you give my card to Mr. Goodall ? 

Servant. Not yet. Haven't found him. I think he must be 
in the music room, with Miss Merrill. 

Phipps. Go ! Seek him there ! \_Servant X. L,] Music hath] 
charms to soothe the savage breast ! 

Servant. Eh ! What's that ? 

Phipps. Stand not upon the order, but go at once. [Servant 
exits quicMy l. i. e.] I hope this may not prove a fool's 
errand. I expect its rather bad form, following him up here, 
but time is precious, and a ten o'clock rehearsal knows no law, 
excepting for stars and leading ladies ; they are a law unto 
themselves. 

[^Enter Goodall l. He grasps Phipps' hand cordially. 

Goodall. Why, Phipps, old man, aren't you lost ? 

Phipps. I certainly feel strangely out of place. I went to 
your hotel. Got there, of course, just after you had left. The 
clerk, who knew me from former visits, gave me a pointer, with 
a wink, and, as I had a ten o'clock rehearsal, I made bold. 

Goodall. All right old fellow ; what can I do for you ? 

Phipps. For me, 0, nothing, thank you. I'm all right. But 
you know the widows and children of those poor firemen who 
were killed at the big fire night before last, are very destitute. 



12 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Croodall. Poor souls ! How many were killed ? 

Phipps. Five. There are four widows, and at least a dozen 
children. The case demands immediate action. That means, 
of course, that we must do something for them, while the char- 
itable societies are trying to find out what church they belong to. 

Groodall. 0, yes ; I see. 

Phipps. Now Fox wants to give them a rouser to-morrow 
night. Julia Dean, John Owens, Mrs. Farren, Whalley, Mrs. 
Jordan and a dozen others have volunteered. The notice is 
short, but Fox says that if he could get a card in the morning 
papers, announcing that Billy Goodall would re-appear for this 
occasion only, and play Romeo to Julia Dean's Juliet, he could 
sell every seat in the house at a premium in two hours. 

Goodall. I fear George's enthusiasm outruns his judgment, 
so far as I am concerned. However, tell him he can count on 
me for the benefit of the widows and orphans. 

Phipps. Do you mean it ? 

Groodall. \_Mock heroic.~\ Place me where the foe is most 
dreaded, where France most needs a life. \_Both laugh heartily. 

Phipps. That sounds like old times, Billy ; I'd give half a 
week's salary myself to see you play Claude again. 

Goodall. Would you ? Come around to my rooms some 
Sunday afternoon, and I'll spout for you half an hour, and 
you can give the salary to the orphans. 

Phipps. I'll do it. Do you know I came with fear and 
trembling, but noAv I'm glad I've come. 

Goodall. How are all the boys and girls ? 

Phipps. All well. But 0, how we miss you. Why don't 
you drop into the green room once in a while and give us an 
imitation of Forrest, just to drive away the blue devils. 

Goodall. I will, some night. 

Phipps. Good. Forrest plays with us next week. Drop 



A SON OF THESPIS. 13 

in then. No one enjoys the imitation more than the Governor 
himself. 

Groodall. I know it, bless his big heart. Tell Fox I've not 
forgotten my promise to do Pythias to Davenport's Damon for 
the benefit of St. John's Guild. 

PJiipps. 0, we've got you down for that. And then you 
know you can't refuse to do Tom Tape to Sue Dennin's Sally 
Scraggs for her benefit next month. 

Groodall. Sure enough. And yesterday Ned Adams wrote 
me that I must play Yolage for his benefit at the Winter Gar- 
den in December. 

Phipps. Good ! And, of course, you'll have to do Badger 
last night of the season for the Newsboys' Home. 

Gfoodall. Great Scott ! I'll be back in harness again if I 

don't draw the line somewhere. Come, I'll see you safely out. 

[GooDALL AND Phipps exit c. L. Phillis enters l. i e. 

Phillis. Will, Will, darling, where are you ! Not here ! He 
said he would return in a moment, [x and listens at door R.] 
I wonder if he is with papa. I hope so. 0, I shall be so 
glad when it is all over and the whole truth known. I can 
hear voices, and papa speaking loud and angrily. How unlike 
him. But I can't hear Will's voice. How sick at heart I 
grow with apprehension and suspense. They are coming. 
Where can I go ? [^Enter Carroll r.] Too late. 

Carroll. It is a desperate game, but the stake is worth the 
risk. \_Sees Phillis.^ Miss Merrill ! This is a pleasure I did 
not anticipate. 

Phillis. I was about going to the music room ; will you 
excuse me ? 

Carroll. I trust I have not frightened you away ? 

Phillis. Not at all. But as your visit is evidently a business 
one, it cannot interest or concern me. 

Carroll. Pardon me. That it concerns you, is beyond doubt. 
That it will interest you, is for yourself to determine. 



14 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Phillis. Will you be seated? {^They sit.^ 

Carroll. Miss Merrill, a grave crisis has arisen in your 
father's affairs. I refer to it at his request. The precise nature 
of the crisis you will learn from himself My object in men- 
tioning it to you is a desire to assure you in advance that no 
change which may occur in your worldly condition will alter 
the feelings I have so long entertained for you. 

Phillis. l^Mising.^ Pardon me, Mr. Carroll. If the purpose 
of this interview is to renew a subject long since interdicted, 
I must ask you to excuse me. 

Carroll. One word more, and I am silent for all time. When 
the blow falls, as fall it must, remember this : so far as I am 
concerned, the past will be forgotten. You will still be Phillis 
Merrill, the daughter of my friend and benefiictor, the one 
perfect image that has filled and shall continue to occupy my 
heart, to the exclusion of all others. 
[Phillis rises indignantly, is about to speak, cheeks herself and 

hows formally^ 

Phillis. Good morning, Mr. Carroll. 

[^Exit Phillis l. i. e. 

Carroll. Heartless and scornful to the last. 

[^Enter Warren Merrill r, i. 

Merrill. You have seen Phillis ? 

Carroll. Yes, for a moment only. 

Merrill. And you prepared her for the blow ? 

Carroll. Yes, but without intimating its exact nature. 

[Merrill drops into a seat. 

Merrill. Phillis, my darling, my only one ; I feel it for her, 
only for her. 

Carroll. We must be brave, sir. There will surely be a little 
saved from the wreck. Besides, being a single man, with 
few responsibilities, I have been enabled to accumulate a small 
competence, safe from the reach of the law. I did this when 



A SON OF THESPIS. 15 

I had hopes of gaining your daughter's hand. This shall he at 
your disposal, or hers. 

Merrill. How could I have been so deceived ? I would have 
staked my life on Goodall's honor and integrity. 

Can-oil. The taking of a perfect stranger into your confidence 
and affections Avas a credit to your heart, if not to your judg- 
ment. But practical philanthropists like yourself are contin- 
ually imposed upon. 

Merrill. Poor Phillis ! How can I tell her ? She loves him 
so absolutely. \_Enter Phillis l. 

Carroll. Your daughter, Mr. Merrill. With your permission, 
I will write a few lines in your study before going to the bank. 

\_Exit Carroll r. i. e. 

Phillis. [^Kneeling at her father s feet.^ Father, dear, what 
has happened ! Something terrible, I know ; your hands are like 
ice, and there are tears in your eyes. Let me kiss them away. 

[/S'Ae kisses and caresses him. 

Merrill. They are not for myself, not for any ill that can 
befall me, but for you, my pride, my joy. The loved image 
and sweet reminder of a sainted mother. For you, the pre- 
cious link that binds the present to the past. 

Phillis. For m6, father dear ? Then do not keep it from me. 
If it is but business misfortune, do not give it a thought. You 
are still in life's prime. William and I are young and strong, 
and safe in each other's love ; we three can laugh away 
worldly troubles like May day clouds. 

Merrill. My brave girl. If it were only that. But I am 
glad that you have courage. Y^ou will need it all. Phillis, 
my child, a terrible truth must be told, though two hearts 
break in the telling. The man whom you so dearly love and 
whom I have honored and trusted, has basely betrayed the love 
and confidence reposed in him. [Phillis rises. 

Phillis. [Aside-I Then he has told all, even sooner than I 



i6 A SON OF THESPIS. 

expected. [^Zow^.] The fault was not his alone, father. Am 
I not equally guilty ? 

Merrill. Guilty ? You guilty ? What could you have known 
of these audacious forgeries ? 

Phillis. Forgeries ? 

Merrill. Yes, child, forgeries. A terrible crime at any 
time, but doubly base when linked with ingratitude. 

Phillis. Forgeries ! Ingratitude ! Father, I fear I do not 
quite understand you. Have you had an interview with Wil- 
liam — I mean with Mr. Goodall — since our return from the 
Park? 

Merrill. No, child ; I have not seen him since yesterday. 
That trying ordeal I have yet to pass. 

Phillis. \_Aside.~\ Not seen him since yesterday ? Forgery ? 
Ingratitude ? 0, father, in mercy's name, tell me what is this 
terrible crime to which you allude ? 

Merrill. Phillis, my child, your affianced husband, my con- 
fidential secretary, has, by a series of infamous forgeries, wrecked 
the bank of Merrill & Carroll. 

Phillis. [^Jumping up.~\ T don't believe it ! Though an 
angel from Heaven should proclaim it, I would still say. No ! 
No ! No ! 

Meri'ill. Phillis, my child, your love has been as blind as 
my faith. We are both deceived and outraged. 

Phillis. But the proofs, father ! The charge is a terrible 
one. What are the proofs ? 

Merrill. They are ample, I grieve to say. Four months 
ago, at Carroll's suggestion, I foolishly gave him authority to 
sign the firm's name. While his crime is technically but a 
breach of trust, it is in his case even more dastardly than 
downright forgery. 

Phillis. Father, as sure as there is justice in Heaven, you 
are making a terrible mistake. 

Merrill. Would that I were. But the evidence is too terri- 



A SON OF THESPIS. 17 

blj clear. Mr. Carroll has even located property that he has 
been buying with hi.s stolen gains. 

Phillis. \_Aside.~\ Mr. Carroll ! Property that he has been 
buying ! 
[GocDALL enters c. L. Phillis tries to run to kiyn, is stopped 

by her father^. 

Phillis. 0, Will, my darling, prove this base — 

Merrill. Not a word. 

Goodall. Good morning, Mr. Merrill, I hope you will not 
be annoyed with me for stealing an hour's sweet-hearting before 
going to business. 

Merrill. Phillis, I must ask you to retire. I have important 
matters to discuss with Mr. Goodall. 

Gfoodall. \_Aside.'\ This is very strange. 

[Merrill leads Phillis to door l. i. 

Phillis. Don't condemn him unheard. Give him a chance 
to defend himself, and face his accusers. Promise me. 

Merrill. He shall have every chance. If he even denies 
his guilt, I shall be half inclined to believe him. 

Phillis. God bless you, my noble father. 
[Merrill kisses her. She exits l. i. e., with a longing look at 

Goodall.] 

Groodall. \_Aside.'\ Now, I understand. Brave-hearted 
girl ! To spare me the ordeal, she has confessed all herself. 
Bless her noble heart. 

Merrill. \_Motions Goodall to sit r. lie sits c. himself.^ 
Mr. Goodall, looking into your frank, open face, I find it diffi- 
cult to believe that I could have so greatly erred in my judg- 
ment of men, as I have done in your case. Less than two 
years ago, my daughter conceived for you what I fancied to be 
a girlish infatuation for a popular idol. You were the stage 
hero of the hour, young, gifted and courted. With none of 
that bigoted prejudice against your art which is affected by 
shallow minds, I made you a welcome guest at my house, 
2 



18 A SON OF THESPIS. 

among others, men of taste and cultivation like yourself. 
I desired my daughter to know the actor in his character of a 
man and citizen. I frankly confess that this nearer contact 
soon convinced me the feeling was, on her part, a sincere pas- 
sion, a sentiment which you assured me was honestly recipro- 
cated. Did I deny you my daughter's society, or forbid you 
my house ? No. The lesson of my own life struggles stood 
before me. It was a story of a poor man's love for a rich man's 
daughter, of a happy union after many trials and humiliations ; 
a brief year of wedded bliss, the birth of a daughter in our hum- 
ble, but happy home, and the tranquil death of the mother. 
She crossed the silent river with a smile upon her face, saying : 
" I have loved and have been loved in return. I have brought 
your reward, I go to seek my own." The memory of that 
sainted woman's love and her noble death have been the guid- 
ing stars of my life. The love of the mother reflected in the 
daughter's face, has been my inspiration and my hope. As she 
has grown to lovely womanhood, it has been my Avish to see 
her love and wed an honest man, who should love her in return. 
I believed that the hour had brought forth the man. In blind 
faith, I took him into my heart and home. I simply asked in 
return that for a period of one year he renounce his profession 
and follow mine. I knew that he loved his art and that such a test, 
if accepted and faithfully fulfilled, would prove the sincerity of 
his affection. William Goodall, you are that man. I confided 
to you my business interests and my daughter's spotless name. 
You cheerfully accepted the great responsibility. How have 
you discharged the trust? [Goodall Jiangs his head in 
sile7ice.'\ Shall I answer for you ? Like a thief you have 
entered the home of a man who confided in your honor, to rob 
him of his treasure. Do I wrong you, sir ? 

Goodall. No ! No ! No ! No words of yours can paint my 
conduct in colors more abhorrent than I now see it myself. 
But let the blame fall on me alone, for I alone am guilty. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 19 

Merrill. Then you confess all ? 

Goodall. The act has been committed. The time has 
arrived when the truth must be told, and I had resolved to 
confess the foolish act to you this very morning. I have been 
weak, selfish and ungrateful, and ingratitude is the basest of 
crimes. 

Merrill. Enough ! The same roof can no longer shelter my 
daughter and yourself. The law will not be invoked against 
you. 

Goodall. The law ? 

Merrill. I leave your punishment to your God and your 
conscience. [Carroll enters R. goes down R. slowly. 

Goodall. Then you intend to separate us ! 

Merrill. Audacious criminal ! Dare you dream otherwise ? 

Goodall. And it is her will '( 

Merrill. She has now no will but mine. [Phillis e7itersL. 

Goodall. She is here, let her speak. Phillis — 

Merrill. Do not dare to approach her, sir. Phillis, my 
daughter, this ingrate has freely confessed his crime. 

[Phillis groans, looks at Goodall. His head falls. 

Phillis. It is true ! It is true ! 0, how I have loved him ! 
All for this ! 

Merrill. My child, this roof can no longer shelter you both. 
lie has demanded that you choose between us. 

[Phillis looks wildly from one to the other. 

Goodall. And you can hesitate, notv .^ 
\J\Iilitary hand in distance playing, " The Girl I Left Behind 

Me." Phillis still struggling, is about to swoon. Carroll 

offers to support her. She repulses him ivith a gesture, and 

falls at her father s feet with a groan.~\ 

Merrill. You see, sir ? You see ? 

Goodall. Had I a hundred eyes, each eye would see that 
agony. Had I a hundred ears, each ear had heard that groan. 
Had I a thousand lives, I'd give them all to save that break- 



20 A SON OF THESPIS. 

ing heart one pang. \_Music louder and cheers^ Do you 
hear those sounds ! They tell of men going forth to battle for 
a nation's life. Husbands, fathers, brothers and lovers tear 
themselves from clinging arms to form a mighty host. My 
place is there. [Phillis recovering and rising, and moves 
toioa7xi GooBALL. Her Father stands betwee^i.'] No mother 
bids her son go forth, no lover holds him in a last embrace, 
no wife with streaming eyes holds up her baby for a farewell 
kiss, but to the God of battles this day I offer a name dis- 
honored and a love disowned. \_Uxit Goodall. 
[Phillis makes one despairing effort to reach him, and swoons 
in her father s arms.~\ 

Stage and auditorium darkened. Scene at hack is illuminated 
hy strong lights, showing a series of painted tableaux about 
12 X llf. feet, as follows : 
First Picture. — Troops departing for the War. Music, 

" The Girl I Left Behiyid Me.'' 
Second Picture. — Battle scene. A Federal Victory. Music, 

'■'■ Rally Round the Flag.'' 
Third Picture. — Battle scene. Confederate victory. In 
foreground a wounded Federal soldier, dying, a Confed- 
erate officer bending over hiin tenderly, other Federals, pris- 
oners to Confederates, etc. In background Federals in 
retreat. Confederates in pursuit, etc. Music, ^^ Dixie." 
Fourth Picture. — Desolation of War, night scene, a battle 
field after a battle. Dead bodies of men and horses, broken 
cannon, etc. Wolves devouring the bodies. Buzzards hover- 
ing over the field, others eating at the bodies. Music, " Dead 
Ma7'ch." 
Fifth Picture. — Peace. A beautiful pastoral scene. Strong 
sunlight. Schoolhouse on left, children playing about school- 
house. Flag flying over school. Picnic party on right in 
foreground. In background farmer ploughing, others reap- 
ing, etc., etc. Music, '■'■Star Spangled Banner." 

CURTAIN. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 21 



ACT II. 



Eighteen Years Later. 
A New JEngland landscape, mountain background. On top of 
mountain, overlooking valley in foreground, a large modern 
summer liotel. On R., large set country house, tvith practical 
veranda. Steps leading to veranda. House extends hack 
from first groves. On l., running back from first groves, 
set high iron fence, with high arched gate in C. G-ate to 
come in 2, entrance on arch over gate in plain letters — 
" Marrigold Villa.'' Rustic table, bench and chairs R. 
other garden furniture, floivers, plants, etc., ad. lib. Picket 
fenceinlf, with gate open in c. At rise enters Rube Hawkins, 
with rake and pitchfork, a New England bumpkin about 25, 
yellow hair, florid face, hickory shirt, overalls tucked inside 
of red-topped boots. 

Rube. Gol darned if I'm going to stay out in that brilin' 
sun any longer ; jes because old Zeb Sawyer happens to be my 
father's second cousin, he pretends to take a great interest in 
me. Gets me over here mornin's and evenin's to do chores, 
as he calls it, for two dollars a week, and then sends me out to 
rake and stack a couple tons of hay, jest to kill time, as he 
says, between meals. Durned ef I know what makes me do it. 
Guess its a kinder sneakin' likin' for my second cousin, Phoebe. 
She does nothin' but abuse me, and that seems to make me 
hanker arter her all the more. Guess I'll jest light my pipe 
and take a snooze under that old apple tree. 
\_Exit R. above house. Phcebe enters from house R. She 

goes up c] 

Phoebe. [^Calling.'] Rube! hey Rube! Rube Hawkins! I 
never did see such a stupid idiot as that man is. Rube ! Rube 
Hawkins ! I know as well as I know anything that the big 



22 A SON OF THESPIS. 

lunkhead is snoozing somewhere in a shady spot, and heard 
me as plain as day. Hey, Rube ! 

Ruhe. [OjR.] Hello! 

Phoehe. You're wanted here. 

Ruhe. Well, I'm here. 

Phoehe. I said here ! 

Rube. So did I say here ! 

Phoehe. Well, Avhen I say here I don't mean there. [Rube 
enters R.] Why didn't you come when I called you ? 

Ruhe. Didn't I come? 

Phoehe. Yes, after I had nearly hollered my lungs out. 

Ruhe. I like to hear you holler, your voice has such a 
soothing effect on me. \_Smoking his pipe. 

Phoebe. Stop puffing that horrible cabbage leaf in my face. 

Rube. Anything to oblige the fair sex. l^Puts pipe in pocJcet.l^ 
Phebe, you're a tartar, and you just ride right over me, but 
somehow I seem to like it. I suppyose that's all the good it'll 
do me 

Phoehe. You're right for once in your life. Why can't you 
be around me five minutes without being silly, you big, over- 
grown gawky ? 

Ruhe. Well, it aint my fault, is it, if you effect me that way ? 

Phoebe. That'll do now. Uncle Sawyer has just got Avord 
that there will be a lot of city people up on the stage to-day 
looking for nice country board. Now, you are to hurry out and 
milk the cows and take all of the milk up to the big hotel on 
the hill. Then you are to take that jar of cream from the 
spring house, and all of the young chickens that are fit to kill, 
over to Mrs. Marrigold's villa there, and collect a dollar apiece 
for 'em. And then you are to go down to the grocery and get 
four pounds of oleomargerine, and two cans of condensed milk, 
five loaves of baker's bread, and ten pounds of pickled pork. 

Rube. Whew ! They must be a regular swell crowd. Is that 
all? 



A SON OF THESPIS. 23 

Phoebe. Yes ; hurry. 

Rube. I'm off. \JExit. 

Phoebe. Hey ! Rube ! \^Re-enters.~\ There was a rat drowned 
in the well last night, and uncle hasn't had time to fish it out 
yet, so you are to haul up a barrel of fresh water from the frog 
pond. 

Rube. All right. [^Exit. 

Phoebe. Hey ! Rube ! \^IIe re-enters.^ And buy four pounds 
of dried apples. 

Rube. Dried apples and frog pond water — great jehosiphat! 
they will be a stvell crowd. \^JExit Rube r. u. e. 

Phoebe. There's nothing mean about uncle Sawyer when city 
boarders come. He says nothing's too good for 'em, and if 
necessary he will sell every speck of butter and cream he can 
raise to buy canned raspberries and dried codfish for 'em.. 
That's the kind of country boarding-house keeeper he is. 

Rube. \_Entering R. u. E.] Say, Phoebe, all the passengers 
but two got out at Deacon McCusics doughnut ranch down at 
the crossing. 

Phoebe. Just our luck. 

Rube. How about the groceries ? 

Phoebe. Leave out the pork, and bring two salt mackerel. 

Rube. Salt mackerel and dried apples ! That means two 
barrels of frog pond water. 
[^Exit Rube r. u. e. Phboebe to house. Enter u. e. as coming 

from stage coach, Bernard Carroll and Sophocles 

Spott. ' They survey the surroundings as they come down.l 

Carroll. This is the retreat, eh ? 

Spott. This is the spot. I have had considerable difficulty 
in running the game to cover, but the result shows your wis- 
dom in leaving everything to me. 

Carroll. What particulars have you obtained ? 

Spott. The lady is stopping at the big villa there, overlook- 
ing the lake, probably as a guest. 



24 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Carroll. Whose villa is it ? 

Spott. It is the summer residence of a rich New York 
widow, Mrs. Marrigold. 

Carroll. Marrigold ? A widow ? Of Seventy-ninth street ? 

Spott. The same. Do you know her ? 

Carroll. 0, very well. I have frequently met her in 
society. \_Enter Phcebe fro7n house R. 

Phvhe. Good-morning, gentlemen. Were you looking for 
country hoard ? 

Spott. Yes, my fair Hebe. 

Pluehe. Fair who ? 

Spott. I said Hebe. 
• Phoebe. What can he be talking about ? My name is Phoebe, 
sir, not Hebe, sir. Phoebe Adams. My aunt and uncle keep 
this house, and I come over during the busy season to help 
them out. 

Spott. Yes. I've heard you make that little speech before. 
You don't remember me, eh ? 

Phoebe. 0, yes, now I do. You took dinner here three 
days ago, and asked me so many questions about the family at 
the villa on the lake. 

Spott. Exactly. I see the villa is still there. 

Phoebe. yes, and full of people. Mrs. Marrigold's son is 
home from Columbia College. Then there's a beautiful widow, 
Mrs. Goodall, with such a lovely daughter. They seem to 
have settled doAvn for the summer, from the quantity of bag- 
gage. Then there are tourists and coaching parties coming 
and going every day. 

Carroll. You keep well posted. 

Phoebe. No trouble to do that. They are a jolly lot. Not 
at all stuck up. They often stroll down here and chat with us. 
Besides, we sell Mrs. Marrigold all of our butter and cream. 

Carroll and Spott. All of it ? 



A SON OF THESPIS. 25 

Phoebe. no ! no ! only just some, on days when we don't 
have any boarders. 

Carroll and Spott. Oh ! [Rube enters hurriedly. 

Ruhe. Say, Phoebe, how many pounds of oleomar — [Phcebe 
tries to stop him.~\ Well, if they haven't got the mackerel, shall 
I get the salt pork ? 

[Phcebe pushes him off. Carroll and Spott look at each 
other. ~\ 

Pha'be. We have two very pleasant front rooms, gentlemen. 

Carroll. I shall want one for a day or two. 

Spott. And I will take the other, 

Phoebe. I'll see about dinner. I think uncle must be out 
milking the Alderney cows, or killing some spring chickens, or 
maybe he may have run over to the brook to get a mess of 
trout. Auntie is just down in the garden picking some straw- 
berries. \_Exit Phcebe into house. 

Carroll. Strawberries and Alderney cream ! 

Spott. Spring chicken and brook trout ! I wonder what that 
hayseed meant by dried apples and salt pork ? 

Carroll. We shall probably find out at dinner. 

Spott. Well, I hope not. 

Carroll. Now, Mr. Spott, as I shall not for the present 
require your services further, will you kindly let me know the 
amount of my indebtedness to your firm ? 

Spott. The firm of Spott & Bleedem is governed in these 
matters entirely by results. No results, no dividends, except- 
ing, of course, the trifling matter of incidental expenses. 

Carroll. I see ! Well sir. Your firm can have no possible 
interest in my relations, past, present or future, with the lady 
whose whereabouts I employed you to learn ; therefore, you 
may make out your bill of incidentals. 

Spott. There you wrong us. The firm of Spott & Bleedem 
feels an abiding interest in the success or failure of the various 
enterprises in which it have been engaged. 



26 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Carroll. Excuse me, sir, but this is not an enterprise, and 
we can have nothing in common. 

Spott. There you wrong us again. One week ago to-day, 
you summoned me to your office to ascertain for you the where- 
abouts of a lady and daughter, of whom you evidently had lost 
track. You did not confide to me your reason for wishing to 
locate the lady, but on your desk was a morning Herald ; on 
the open page was an advertisement heavily marked with blue 
pencil lines. I noted the item, and upon reaching the street I 
procured a copy of the paper, and cut from it the following : 
\_lieads.^ "Information wanted of the whereabouts of Mrs. 
Phillis Goodall, nee Merrill, daughter of Warren Merrill, 
banker, who died in this city in 1863. The lady, her daugh- 
ter or her husband, if living, will learn something to their 
advantage by addressing, Texas, box 1844, New York post 
office." Now, see how one thing leads to another. Goodall was 
the name of the lady I was to locate ; the mysterious advertise- 
ment, doubtless, had something to do with you summoning me. 
Now, the firm of Spott & Bleedem is the legitimate successor 
of the old and very respectable firm of Ketchem & Workem, 
who did business in New York from 1852 to 1870. Not a 
defalcation, forgery, breach of trust, bank robbery, murder, 
felonious assault (to say nothing of elopements and other 
social scandals) that occurred during those years, in or about 
New York, but its entire history, together Avith memoranda 
and comments upon the merits of the case, are carefully filed 
in our office. Turning to these files I found that in 1861 the 
firm of Merrill & Carroll had been wrecked by extensive for- 
geries, or rather by breach of trust. The culprit was named 
Goodall, at one time an actor, but later Merrill's secretary, 
and betrothed to Merrill's daughter. After this memoranda 
comes the letters H. U. \_IIushed up.~\ Then followed copious 
memoranda by the firm. Would you like to hear what 
Ketchem & Workem thought in 1863 ? 



A .SON OF THESPIS. 27 

Carroll. As you please. 

Spott. [Reading from 3Iss.] Looks like a conspiracy — W. I. 
[ Watch ^^.] Goodall entered the army. It transpired that he 
had been secretly married to Miss Merrill, at Paterson, N. J. 
three months before. There is an issue to this union, a daugh- 
ter born April 28, 1862. Warren Merrill died in moderate 
circumstances, shortly after the birth of his grand-daughter. 
Two men are to be kept sight of in connection with this case — 
Philip Hawley, the bookkeeper, now going to the bad, and the 
junior partner, Bernard Carroll. M. I. I. \_Monei/ in ?'^.] 

Carroll. Quite a romantic incident. 

Sjjott. Isn't it ? I merely refer to it to show how great an 
interest the firm takes in the affairs of its patrons. 

Carroll. Very thoughtful of you. [J.s^■<:?e.] Miserable 
blackmailers. [^-I^omc?.] I could have saved you much trouble, 
and, that you may concern yourself no further, I will add that 
I have always taken a deep interest in this lady's welfare. 
I desired to call her attention to the advertisement, and to offer 
my services for the furtherance of her interests. 

Spott. [Grasping Carroll's hand effusively.~\ Noble soul ! 
How generous and unselfish ! How much better this miserable 
world would be if there were more like you. [x. aside.^ I'm 
something of a liar myself, but this man makes me feel insig- 
nificant. 

Carroll. And, now, Mr. Spott, as you have had so much 
trouble for nothing, I shall not complain if your bill for inciden- 
tals is made out in proportion to your good intentions. We 
will sample the cream and brook trout, and in an hour you 
can be rattling merrily back to New York. 

Spott. 0, bless you, I'm in no hurry. It's about time for 
my vacation. The air here agrees with me, and the incidentals 
will cover it all. Don't worry. Leave everything to me. 
Besides, you wouldn't think of allowing me to depart without 
an introduction to the ladies. 



28 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Carroll. Do you imagine that I would introduce you to these 
ladies ? 

Spott. Why not ? It's not necessary to advertise my name 
or profession. Simply a club friend whom you ran across here 
by accident, a guest of the Mountain House. Call me Jones, 
Walker, anything you like, and leave everything to me. 

Carroll. You are jesting. 

/Spott. I was never more serious in my life. [Groes up c] 

Carroll. The mangy cur ! My first and last experience with 
private detectives. \_Enter PncEBE/rom house. 

Phoebe. Dinner is ready, gentlemen. 

Carroll. Thank you ; I can relish a dish of strawberries and 
cream. \_Exit Carroll in house. 

Spott. Dinner ? Did you say dinner ? Visions of spring 
chicken and brook trout. [JSxit Spott into house r. 

Phxhe. I wish Rube would hurry up with that mackerel ; we 
have only three slices of pork in the house, and no,t a bit of 
canned corned beef. [^Exit Phcebe mto house. 

[Enter through gate L. Dorothy followed by Arthur, both 

in tennis dresses. She is running, he chasing her. He 
jinally captures her and tries to kiss her.'\ 

Dorothy. Stop it ! Don't you dare to kiss me ! If you do, 
I'll tell your mother. 

Arthur. Tell my mother ! You know you won't do anything 
of the kind. 

Dorothy. Yes, I will. She told me to tell her if you didn't 
behave properly. 

Arthur. What's the use playing if you don't intend to pay ? 
Dorothy. What's the use playing if I don't win ? 
Arthur. You proposed the game. 
Dorothy. No, I didn't. 
Arthur. Yes, you did. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 29 

Dorothy. Well you proposed the forfeit, and you had no 
right to win ; you should always let the lady win ; your mamma 
says so. 

Arthur. My mamma ! I wish you'd give my mamma a rest. 
When a fellow gets to be twenty -one, he don't want his mamma 
thrown at him every five minutes, particularly by young ladies. 

Dorothy. And when a young lady gets to be seventeen, she 
don't want young men trying to kiss her on the public highway. 

Arthur. I'm not too sure about that. 

Dorothy. You're impertinent ; your mamma said you were, 
and now I know it. Don't ever speak to me again. From 
this time forth we are strangers. 
\_She jiaunts up c. Arthur drops in seat L. Rube Hawkins 

enters C. with two parcels. ~\ 

Ruhe, The only thing they had left in the store was red 
herrin' and soda crackers. 

Dorothy. 0, Mr. Hawkins, what have you got, Avhat have 
you got ? 

Rube. Mr. Hawkins ! Geehossiphat ! but that sounds funny. 
0, I say, just call me Rube, or my clothes wont fit. 

[Phcebe enters from house. 

Phoebe. Will you ever get in here with those things ! What 
did you get ? 

Rube. Brook trout, smoked. \_Exit Rube into house. 

Phoebe. Good morning. Miss Goodall. 

Dorothy. Good morning, Phoebe. Miss Goodall ! Miss 
Goodall. Please to remember that in future, Mr. Marrigold. 
\^She sweeps around with a grand air. 

Arthur. I thought we were strangers. 

Dorothy. So we are. Did you have any new arrivals to-day, 
Phoebe ? 

Phoebe. Yes, two. 

Dorothy. Is that all ? I haven't seen the tAvo funny gentle- 



30 A SON OF THESPIS. 

men this morning, though I've been down to the gate a dozen 
times looking out. 

Phoebe. 0, Mr. Betterton, the tragedian, and his secretary, 
Mr. Wallack, they went down to Baldwinsville last evening to 
give readings at the Baptist church ; they will be back during 
the morning. 

Dorothy. I'm so glad they haven't gone away to stay. I 
just love that dear old gentleman. He is so different from any- 
one I ever met before, and the slim man is so awfully jolly and 
funny. Do you know what the tragedian calls me ? 

Phoebe. 0, yes. Sweet Violet. 

Dorothy. What a strange fancy, wasn't it ? And holding his 
finger up just like that, he said: "Now don't tell me your 
name, for I want to know you only as my sweet Violet," and 
his voice was so tender and gentle, and his smile so sweet. 

Phoebe. 0, he's very polite to ladies. Why, he couldn't treat 
me with more ceremony if I were Mrs. Marrigold herself. 

Dorothy. Do you know, I think I ought not to call him an 
old gentleman. He isn't old, although he is bald. Why, some- 
times when he smiles and brightens up, he looks ever so young 
and handsome. 

Arthur. You seem greatly interested in these entire strangers, 
Miss Goodall. 

Dorothy. That is my privilege, I believe, Mr. Marrigold. 

Phoebe. There they go ! Quarrelling again. In five minutes 
they'll be hugging each other. Three's a crowd. 

\_Exit Phcebe m house r. 

Dorothy. 0, Archie, see ! What a beautiful butterfly ! Let's 
catch it ! 
[ They chase about tvith their tennis bats, run into each other, 

strike out wildly, laughing and screaming. Finally capture 

it and run down L. They sit on the bench, examining the 

butterjly, their heads very close together.~\ 

Dorothy. Isn't it just lovely ! 



A SON OF THESPIS. 31 

Arthur. It's perfectly beautiful. 
\_Enter CoL. Tom Alchostra at hack. A large handsome 

man of fifty. A typical southwesterner, neatly dressed in 

gray. Carries a grip.~\ 

Colonel. [LooJcing at house R.] This looks to be more in 
my way. Too doggone many frills for me up at that big hotel 
on the hill. I never fully realized my utter insignificance 
until to-day. When that big cluster diamond pin, with a small 
blonde man behind it, sized me up, and passed me the pen, I 
felt that I were a worm ; and when he called Mr. Front, and 
told him to show me to 1159, I felt that I were a Chinaman. 
I collared my grip and struck for low timber. Twenty-four 
hours in the place, and Texas would have forgotten that I ever 
existed. [Sees Dorothy and Arthur with their heads very 
close together L. Speaks very loud.'\ Change cars ! [ They jump 
up, Dorothy screams. They run to gate l, turn and look 
again, then rush off through gate L.] I don't like to interfere 
with people's enjoyment, but I don't see how I could have 
helped it in this case. The ranch seems very quiet. I shall 
have to take an inventory. \_Sits L. opens grip, takes out 
newspaper.'] Ah, here it is ! \_Reads.] " Information is 
wanted of the whereabouts of Mrs. Phillis Goodall, nee Merrill, 
daughter of Warren Merrill, banker, who died in this city in 
1862. The lady, her daughter or her husband, if living, 
will learn something to their advantage by addressing Texas, 
box 1844, P. 0. N. Y. City." Now, that looks harmless 
enough, but lo ! the result. [ Takes out very large bundle of 
letters.] Over three hundred letters from lawyers, sharpers, 
beggars, detectives and other dead beats. [Opens one and 
reads.] " Dear Sir : The firm of Sharp Brothers, attorneys- 
at-law, make a specialty of tracing heirs, etc., terms contingent." 
[Reads.] •" Texas, box 1844. Can give you some valuable 
information, being the successors of the old firm of Ketchem 
& Workem. Our records of the oldest New York, New Jersey 



32 A SON OF THESPIS. 

and Connecticut families are most complete. You will consult 
your interests by consulting us. A word to the wise, Spott 
& Bleedem, private detectives, successors to Ketchem & 
Workem. \_Reads.~\ "Texas, etc., Honored Sir: "The 
Society for the Regeneration of the Heathen." — Yes, of course, 
and three hundred others of the same sort, and every mother's 
son of em a professional dead beat. But here's one that has 
the ring of sincerity. \^Reads.^ " Texas, N. Y., P. 0. box 
1844. Replying to your advertisement, I have to say that the 
Avriter is Phillis Goodall, daughter of the late Warren Merrill, 
banker. My husband, William Goodall, entered the Federal 
army in 1861, since which time I have not seen or heard of 
him. Our daughter, born after my husband's enlistment, is 
now with me, aged seventeen. If you have any information 
of my husband, I shall be glad to call upon you, with ample 
proofs of identity, or, should you prefer it, the enclosed card will 
direct you to my present address. On your arrival at Bald- 
winsville take coach for the Mountain House. There you 
can learn the location of Mrs. Marrigold's villa, where I am at 
present a guest. Respectfully etc., Phillis Goodall." Brief, 
business-like and to the point, and heah I am. 
[Spott enters from house. Colonel hurriedly replaces letters^ 

letting neivspaper fall on the ground.^ 

Spott. I had to come out and get a mouthful of oxygen to 
hold that dinner down. Spring chicken and brook trout — ugh 
[Mug.] 

Colonel. I reckon I will see what the chances are for grub. 
[Starts R. Meets Spott. Theg eye each othex^ I've seen 
that befo'. 

Spott. I've seen him somewhere. 

Colonel. Good morning, sah. 

Spott. Same to you, sir. [^4s2(;?e.] That's the Southern 
jay who was always hanging around the New York postoffice 
while I was watching box 1844. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 33 

Colonel. l^Aside.'] That's the fellow who was always hang- 
ing around the postoffice when I went fo' my letters. 

Spott. Fine day, sir. 

Colonel. Beautiful, sah, beautiful. 

Spott. Stranger in these parts ? 

Colonel. To a certain extent, sah, yes, sah. 

Spott. Like myself, sir, just stole aAvay from the cares of 
business for a breath of fresh air ? 

Colonel. My own case, sah, exactly, sah. 

\_An atvkward pause. 

Spott. Fine day. 

Colonel. Yes, sah, you said that befo', sah. 

Spott. Did I ? I believe I did. [Aside.'] It's the same 
man, sure. 

Colonel. \_A.nde.] It's the same man, suah. He's a detect- 
ive or a bunco steerer, much the same. [^Another pause. 

Spott, Beautiful weather we're hav — 

Colonel. That's understood, sah. What's your name, sah ? 

[Spott starts, then recovers. 

Spott. Walker, sir. Major Walker, New York Stock 
Exchange. [^Offei's hand.] And yours? 

Colonel. Alchostra, sah, Colonel Tom Alchostra, of Texas. 

[^Grives his hand. 

Spott. \_Aside.] Texas ! \_Aloud.] I'm proud to known you, 
sir. You are from a great State, sir. 

Colonel. Thank you, sah. 

Spott. Cattle King, I suppose ? 

Colonel. Not exactly, sah ; though, like yourself, something 
of a stock man. 

Spott. [ With an affected laugh.] That's good, stock man, 
cattle king, stock broker. That's good, very good, ha, ha ! 
[J.szt?(;.] He's a liar. He's a detective. \_A pause.] It's 
a fine da — 
3 



34 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Colonel. Don't say that again, sah. [vlsi't^e.] This fellow is a 
liar or a detective — the same thing. He has been following me. 
[x to house R.] \_Aloud.~\ Good morning, sah ; I trust we 
shall become better acquainted, sah. 

\_Exit Colonel Tom into house r. 
Spott. Same to you, sir. If he is a detective, he's a new one 
on me. I'll take a little stroll in the garden, and see if I can 
find that strawberry patch. 

\^Music, '■'■Auld Lang Syne.'' Goodall, known as Better- 
ton, and Phipps, known as Wallack, enter l. u. e. 
Phipps carries a champagne basket, with hits of tinselled 
wardrobe protruding, and sivords and foils tied on top. 
Goodall is dressed in dark Prince Albert coat, lavender 
trousers and white gaiters ; Byronic collar and cuffs, hair 
long and in ringlets, bald on the crotvn ; a handsome, 
graceful, gentlemanly man, apparently about 50, exquisitely 
neat, but quaint and old fashioned, a Palmy Pay Tragedian. 
He wears the Gr. A. R. button. Wallack is an old-time 
country comedian, solemn and very respectfid. Goodall 
carries a bunch of ivild flower s.'\ 

Goodall. Thus far into the bowels of the land have we 
marched on without impediment. 

[Phipps seated r. on basket, wiping away perspiration. 
Phipps. Without impediment ! What do you call this ? 
\_Basket.~\ 

Goodall. In the exhilaration of the glorious morning air, 
fragrant with the tonic perfumes of meadow, orchard and wood- 
land, I have not felt the burden. * 

Phipps. You haven't felt it ! Probably not. But I have. 
Goodall. Blessed is he whose back is fitted to his burden. 
This castle hath a pleasant seat. Here for the nonce we will 
abide. This merry jaunt through shaded valleys and fragrant 
fields has inspired me. I shall to-day re-write the sixth act 
of my drama. [^Se sits and take out Mss.^ 



A SON OF THESPIS. 35 

Pliipps. There lie goes again. The idea of a great trage- 
dian descending to write a drama of modern rot, and actually 
wanting to act in it himself, he, the ideal Hamlet, the best Lear 
since Forrest, and the only Romeo. 

CroodaU. Last night, after the banquet, tendered us by the 
Rector, Deacons and the Mayor — 

Phipps. Banquet ! Ham sandwiches in the vestry. 

Goodall. A new situation came to me, and before sleeping, 
I jotted it down. I will read you the scene. 

Phipps. Some other time. I know you must be tired. 
[vlsi'c^e.] I am [Goodall looks at him in disgust.^ 

GroodaU. Upon what date did we mail the synopsis and 
descriptive circular of my new war drama to the New York 
managers ? 

Phipps. Just two weeks ago. 

Goodall. No answer yet from Palmer ? 

Phipps. Not a line. 

Goodall. And Daly, Frohman, French and Abbey ? 

Phipps. Not a line. Even Miner and Jacobs are silent. 

Goodall. This is the unkindest cut of all. It is the irony 
of fate. 

Phipps. What chance is there in the profession to-day for 
real actors ? 

Goodall. Actors ! Actors ! There are no actors now. Count 
them upon your fingers. Forrest, Eddy Davenport, Adams, 
Chanfrau, Hamblin, Scott, Jennings, gone ! all gone ! why, 
there are scarcely a dozen of us left. 

Phipps. And the manager don't seem to know that we are 
here. 

Goodall. When Roscius was an actor in Rome — 

Phipps. Then came each actor on his ass. 

Goodall. Which reminds me that I have here a letter 
offering me an engagement to play Uncle Tom, at Rahway, on 
July the Fourth. Yes, sir, this vulgar ignoramus actually asks 



36 A SON OF THESPIS, 

me to play second to a jackass. Here is his programme, with a 
portrait jpf his star, \_Exhibits a long programme of Uncle 
Tom^ with large cut of a jackass. '\ And I supported Forrest ! 
\_Colonel Tom comes from house ivith Phcehe. He has a letter 

in his hand. 

Phoebe. I hope you found the room pleasant, sir. 

Colonel. 0, yes, Miss, quite to my liking. Mrs. Marri- 
gold's Villa is there, you say ? 

Phoebe. Yes, sir, that is her park, and gatekeeper's lodge. 

Colonel. I should like to send a note to the house. 

Phoebe. Certainly, sir. Here, Rube ! Hey, Rube ! [Rube 
comes from house.~\ This gentlemen wants you to take a letter 
to Mrs. Marrigold's. 

Rube. Yes, sir. Any answer, sir ? 

Colotiel. Ask the lady. 

Rube. Yes, sir. 
\_Takes letter and starts l. reading address aloud, ^^ Mrs. 

Phillis Goodall, care Mrs. Marrigold., Marrigold Villa,'' 

He falls over his feet and stumbles off through the gate L.] 

Phoebe. 0, Mr. Betterton, I didn't know that you had 
returned ; I expected you up on the stage. 

Cfoodall. All the world's a stage. Why should we be jos- 
tled over dusty roads in a plebeian spring wagon, when walk- 
ing is a nobler exercise. 

Phipps. Yes, and much more appetizing. 

Phoebe. Colonel Alchostra, this is Mr. Betterton, the famous 
tragedian. 

Colonel. \_Offering hand.~\ I admire your noble art, sir, and 
esteem it an honor to know one of its most gifted exponents. 

Gfoodall, Your praise outruns my poor deserving, sir. Per- 
mit me to present my secretary and fellow artist. Burton Wal- 
lack. A man he is of honesty and trust. 

Colonel, [x'ing, takes his hand.^ I esteem this a great 
privilege, sah. 



A SON OF THESPIS. ^7 

Phipps. I am your poor servant, ever, sir. 

Colo7ieh \_Aside.'\ A most interesting pair, certainly. 

[Colonel goes up c. and l. looking off gate. 

Phoebe. [To Goodall.] I have saved two nice spring 
chickens and some strawberries for you, but I had to hide 'em 
in the wood shed to keep 'em. 

Groodall. Your pains are registered when every day I tur^i 
the leaf to read. 

Phoebe. How I do love to hear him talk. 

Groodall. How are you progressing with" the part of Willie 
Hammond ? 

Phoebe. 0, I know all of the speeches now, but the cues ar.e 
what bother me most. Are you sure that I can do it ? 

Groodall. Positive ; why, you will be an ideal soubrette. 

Phoebe. Rube and I were going over the scenes together 
last evening in the parlor, when Uncle came in and caught us. 
the stories we had to tell. I'll tell the cook to prepare your 
dinner. \Exit Phcebe to house. 

Groodall. Excellent wench. 
[Phipps l. has picked up paper dropped by Colonel 

Alchostra. He glances at it carefully, sees the marked 

advertisement, looks again, gets his glasses on, and reads 

intently.^ 

Groodall. [To Colonel Alchostra.] You will excuse me, 
sir ; I see my morning ramble has been fruitful in the accum\i- 
lation of dust. \_Bows politely and enters house L. 

Colonel. \_Coming down c.~\ I like these gentlemen. They 
are about the first I have met since I got to New York who do 
not appear like suspicious characters. 

Phipps. [^Staring at paper. ~\ I wonder what it can mean. 
\^Reads disjointedly.^ Phillis Goodall, daughter of Merrill, 
banker — information wanted — and marked in blue pencil, box 
1844. I can't be dreaming this. [_Takes a pin from his coat, 
sticks it in his leg, jumped up.~\ No, sir ; I'm wide awake. 



38 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Colonel. Ah, Mr. Wallack. I suppose you have sought this 
quiet retreat for a much-needed rest after a season of contin- 
uous mental endeavor. 

Phipps. Exactly, sir. Is this your paper, sir ? I found it 
lying here. 

Colonel. \_Taking and examining it.^ Yes, sah. I must 
have dropped it. 

Phipps. May I ask, sir, if you marked that advertisement in 
blue pencil ? 

Colonel. I did, sah. 

Phipps. Of course its none of my business, sir ; but did you 
mark it for any particular reason ? 

Colonel. \_Aside.~\ These men are old actors. Possibly 
knew Goodall. [JLZowc?.] I inserted that advertisement. 

Phipps. You did ? 

Colonel. I did, sah. I take it, sah, that you have been many 
years in your profession, sir. Possibly you were actors befo' 
the wah. 

Phipps. Yes, sir ; we were. 

Colonel. In the metropolis, sah, or in the provincial cities ? 

Phipps. Right in New York, sir. We've not always been 
barnstormers, sir. I never amounted to much as an actor 
myself, sir. I was prompter, stage manager and all-round 
utility, but my companion was a famous leading man when the 
war broke out, and New York was at his feet. He was a 
mere lad of twenty-six, and the present generation of theatre- 
goers don't know him. But you ask any old time New 
Yorker if he remembers Billy Goodall. 

Colonel. [Jumping up.~\ Goodall ! 

Phipps. [Jumping up.~\ Eh, who said anything about 
Goodall ? 

Colonel. You did, sah. 

Phipps. Well, then I didn't mean it. I must have been 
dreaming. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 39 

Colonel. Sit down, sail. No harm is done ; possibly much 
good. 

Phipps. [Aside.'l 0, what have I said ? what have I done ? 

Colonel. No harm, sah, no harm at all. If, in an unguarded 
moment, you have said anything which you regret or wish to 
recall, on the honah of a Texan and a soldier, I did not 
heah it, sah. 

PMpps. [Taking his hand.^ I thank you, sir. 

Colonel. Of this rest assured. I am the bearer of joyful 
tidings to William Goodall, if he's living; to his wife and 
daughter, if he is dead. 

Phipps. His daughter ? 

Colonel. Yes, sah. His wife or widow, and his daughter. 

Phipps. And you have sought him here ? 

Colonel. No, sah. I have sought the lady and her daugh- 
ter here. 

Phipps. Here,? here ? 

Colonel. Yes, sah, heah. They are at present guests at 
yonder villa, sah. 

Phipps. Then your meeting with us is purely accidental ? 

Colonel. Purely, sah, I assure you. 
[Phipps takes a pin from his coat and jabs it in his leg. Winces. 

Then jabs it in Colonel A's leg. Colo'nel jumps up with 

a cry. Phipps jumps up.^ 

Phipps. Excuse me, sir, but I wanted to make sure that it 
wasn't a dream. 

Colonel. Yes, sah, of course, sah, quite right, sah. [^Rubs 
his leg ] 

Phipps. And after all these years I have betrayed my 
friend and benefactor. 

Colonel. Betrayed ! Say rather rescued, sah, saved. 

Phipps. You don't know the man, sir. He entered the 
army under a cloud, using a fictitious name. His young wife, 
whom he worshipped, forsook him for her father at a terrible 



40 A SON or THESPIS. 

moment. Why, if he dreamed that she was near him at this 
moment he would strike out for Jackass Gulch or the Red 
Dog Canon within an hour. 

Colonel. Then he must not know it, and they must be 
brought together by strategy. 

Phipps. Do you think it can be done ? 

Colonel. Your friend is dear to you ? 

Phipps. Dearer than my own life, sir. He took me, a friend- 
less, hungry gamin, from the slums of the old Bowery, and made 
a man of me. I was his dresser, then call boy, prompter, stage 
manager, and when he entered the army I followed him. I 
saw him rise from a private soldier to a full colonel of cavalry ; 
and when the end came, the actor, who by his genius had 
swayed the hearts of thousands, and the dashing soldier, who, 
upon twenty fields had sought death, only to gain promotion, 
both passed from the public eye, both were lost in Betterton, 
the wandering son of Thespis. Do you wondpr, sir, that I am 
attached to him ? 

Colonel. No, sah. The sentiment does credit to your head 
and heart. 

Phipps. I don't know why I have spoken so freely to you, 
sir. I seem to have been impelled by a power beyond my 
control. 

Colo7iel. It was instinct, sah — the great voice of nature, that, 
pleading in our hearts, guides us aright, when reason is at fault. 

Phipps. I know you won't abuse my confidence. 

Colonel. \_Gfnmig his hand.'\ Mr. Betterton shall never 
know from me that you have revealed his story. I shall win 
his confidence. 

Phipps. I hope you may, sir. He is very approachable. He 
loves to talk of his art with educated men, and of his army 
life. But if you go back of '61, he will draw himself into his 
shell, and pull the shell in after him. \_They move R.] 



A SON OF THESPIS. 41 

Colonel. 1 will find a way to draw him out again, sah. 
[Colonel and Phipps enter house r. Enter through gate l. 
Mrs. Marrigold, Phillis, Dorothy, Arthur and Rube.] 

Mrs. Marrigold. Did you say the gentleman was stopping 
here ? 

Rube. Yes'm, just arrived. Won't you come in ? 

Mrs. Marrigold. No, thank you, the gentleman is likely at 
dinner. We will stroll down to the post-ofiice, and stop on our 
return. 

Ruhe. Yes'm. I'll tell him so. 

[Rube enters house n., falling over his feet. 

Dorothy. I wonder if Mr. Betterton has got back ? 

Arthur. Yes. Rube told me he had just arrived. 

Dorothy. I wish he would come out so mamma could see him 
just for a minute. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Why, Phillis dear, you're as pale as a 
ghost. 

Phillis. Am I, dear ? After all, it's not strange when you 
consider the mysterious character of this advertisement, coming 
after so many years. 

Mrs. Marrigold. It is strange, dear. But it can't be any- 
thing very tragic. Probably the lawyers have discovered some 
means by which they hope to get a good fee out of you. 

Phillis. I hope it's nothing more serious. But I somehow 
fancy that it is some part of a scheme of Bernard Carroll's. 

Mrs. Marrigold. I don't see what more he could hope to gain. 

Phillis. He has continuously annoyed me with his attentions. 
About two years ago I escaped them by renting my city house 
and taking quiet lodgings near Dorothy's school. 

Mrs, Marrigold. Well, you're safe for this summer, 
for I propose to keep you here until October at least. We 
really haven't had a good long visit since Ave left school, and 
here we are widows, with a great big boy and girl, old enough, 
and just foolish enough to fall in love. 



42 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Phillis. You will find me a willing captive, Madge, dear. 

Mrs. Marrigold. But I "won't have any long faces about 
me Life is too short. You've got to romp and laugh and 
sing and brace up and be a girl again. 

Phillis. One can't well help being cheerful about you. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Cheerful ! that's not enough. You must 
be jolly. Why, at school you were the incarnation of fun and 
mischief, just like that vixen, Dorothy, is now. 

Phillis. But, Madge, dear, we are no longer girls. 

Mrs. Marrigold. We are just what we make ourselves. You 
want a new romance. Why you're only thirty-six. Don't 
chill every man who looks at you tenderly. Women were 
created to love and to be loved, and the heart that loves never 
grows old. 

Phillis. Then mine shall be ever youthful and ever green. 
[Putting her arms about Mrs. Marrigold.] For I love you. 
I love my sweet, mischievous daughter, and I love the memory 
of William Goodall. 
\_They go up c. Dorothy and Arthur are seated on steps of 

house R.] 

Mrs. Marrigold. [Turning at hack.'\ Come along, children. 
[Exit Phillis and Mrs. Marrigold. 

Dorothy and Arthur. Children ! [x l. 

[Jump up, both look disgusted. Betterton appears on 

veranda of house just at Phillis's exit. Arthur and 

Dorothy go out l. Betterton has a bunch of tvild 
flowers. Dorothy and Arthur run to greet him, and then 

advance C on each side of him, taking his hands.~\ 

Dorothy. 0, Mr. Betterton ! we are so glad you have 
returned. Yesterday seemed so long and lonesome after you 
left. 

Goodall. My sweet violet; you would not flatter a poor 
citizen ? 

Dorothy. 0, no, indeed. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 43 

[GoODALL Sits L, the youug people on the ground at his feet. 

Dorothy. I wish you had come just a moment sooner. Mrs. 
Marrigold and my mamma were here. 

Gfoodall. Indeed ? 

Dorothy. Yes, they have just walked down to the post-office. 

Arthur. But they will be back in a few minutes. 

GroodaU. As I wandered through the meadows this morning, 
I plucked these wild flowers. 

Dorothy. For me ? 0, how sweet and beautiful ! 

Goodall. Can you read their language ? 

Dorothy. 0, yes, sir. 

Goodall. There is a violet. The symbol of sweetness, purity 
and modesty ; may it always become you as now. \^He 
puts violets in her hair.'\ Here's a sprig of rosemary. 

Dorothy. That's for remembrance. 

Goodall. And here a pansy. 

Dorothy. A pansy ! That's for thought. Thought and 
remembrance fitted. 

Goodall. Ah ! I see you read Shakespeare, too. 

Dorothy. 0, yes, sir. Mamma read all of the plays of 
Shakespeare to me, as soon as I was old enough to understand 
them. 

Goodall. A wise and thoughtful mother. And you attend 
the theatre ? 

Dorothy. 0, yes, very often, with my teachers and school 
mates. But mamma never goes. I don't know why. Yet, 
once she told me that my papa had been a famous actor when 
a very young man before their marriage. Then he became a 
soldier and was killed. 

Goodall. Poor child. 

Dorothy. I presume that's why mamma never goes. 

Arthur. Not a bit like my mother. She takes in anything, 
and so do I. And we know lots of mighty nice people in the 
profession, and mother often has em up to the house to dinner. 



44 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Dorothy. Isn't it strange that neither of us has seen Mr. 
Better ton on the stage ? How I should love to see you play 
Hamlet. Do you think you will play it in New York soon ? 

Groodall. \_After a pause.^ Possibly. 

[^He hangs his head thoughtfully. 

Arthur. Now is a good time ; ask him now. 

Dorothy. I don't like to. 

Arthur. Go on ! He won't be annoyed by anything you 
say. 

Dorothy. Mr. Betterton do you ever give — that is — I mean 
do you some times take part in private theatricals ? 

Arthur. No, she means do you ever give entertainments at 
private residences ? 

Dorothy. Yes, that's it. 

Groodall. Frequently. The art of entertaining, or endeavor- 
ing to do so, is my profession, and I have pursued it in the 
noblest temples of Thespis, in the candle lit barns of the 
western hamlet, in the humble dining-room of the mining camp 
hotel, and in the elegant drawing-rooms of the rich devotees of 
fashion. 

Dorothy. 0, I'm so glad. To-morrow will be Arthur's — I 
mean Mr. Marrigold's — twenty-first birthday, and his mamma is 
going to give him a party. 

Arthur. Mamma! A party! 0, come off ! Don't make 
me a kid when I'm old enough to vote. I'm going to have a 
big blow-out. 

Dorothy. Yes, there's an orchestra to come up from Nashua, 
so that we can dance in the evening. 

Arthur. And a swell dinner, with everybody in full dress 
togs. Lots of my Columbia chums are coming up. 

Dorothy. And if we could just have a nice little play to 
wind up with. 

Goodall. Nothing easier. I had arranged to play to-mor- 
row night at Baldwinsville, for the benefit of the Reformed 



A SON OF THESPIS. 45 

Drunkards' Association, a drama called " Ten Nights in a Bar- 
room," assisted by local talent. But, unfortunately, the lady 
Avho was to play little Mary Morgan, the drunkard's darling 
child, was called to Bangor to attend the wedding of her 
granddaughter. So I am at liberty for the occasion. 

Arthur. Well, we don't want any temperance drama to- 
morrow night. 

Dorothy. No, indeed, some of the guests might think we 
were getting personal. 

Groodall. An inspiration ! I will enact a scene from my own 
new drama. 

Dorothy. 0, have you written a real play, all of your own, 
just like Shakespeare ? 

Goodall. [After a pause.'\ A real play of my own, yes ; but 
not exactly like Shakespeare, perhaps. 

Arthur. That will be jolly. Where was it first produced ? 

Groodall. The rivalry among New York managers for its 
premier is now at its height. I shall bide my time. Mean- 
time your guests will enjoy the honor of witnessing the first 
representation of any of its scenes. 

Dorotiiy. Isn't that nice? 

Groodall. But one obstacle presents itself. 

Dorothy. An obstacle ! 0, dear ! What is it ? 

Goodall. The cast. The scene will require two ladies and 
three gentlemen. The gentlemen are provided for, my come- 
dians, Mr Wallack, Mr. Hawkins aad myself. 

Dorothy. Mr. Hawkins ? 

Arthur. What, Rube ? [ They both laugh heartily. 

Goodall. Talent is frequently found in unexpected places. 
Genius is no respector of pedigrees. I have had them in 
rehearsal for some time. But we sadly need an ingenue. 

Dorothy. 0, how I wish I could do it ! I often played in 
the charades at school. 

Goodall. That wish was an inspiration. Will you do it ? 



46 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Dorothy. Do you think I could ? 

Croodall. Think it ? I know it. You would be an ideal ingenue. 

Arthur. Does this one have a granddaughter ? 

Dorothy. Of course not ; what nonsense ! 

Croodall. But first you must secure your mother's consent. 

Dorothy. That will be easily done. Mamma never denies 
me anything. 

Goodall. I wull send you the part this afternoon, and we will 
rehearse to-morrow at ten sharp, in the hotel parlor. 

Dorothy. 0, dear ! I wonder if I shall get nervous. 

Croodall. \_After a pause.'\ The matter of compensation. 
[Goodall looks into space. Arthur and Dorothy look at 

each other. ^ 

Arthur. Yes, of course — the compensation. 

Dorothy. Yes, of course. 

Goodall. However, 'tis but a trifling detail, which you can 
arrange with my manager. 

Arthur and Dorothy. Your manager ! 

Dorothy. Oh, do you have a manager ? 

Goodall. Assuredly. Mr. Wallack. 

Dorothy. I thought he was your comedian ? 

Arthur. I understood that he was your valet or secretary ? 

Goodall. The exigencies of our art frequently call for the 
exercise of varied functions. Mr. Wallack's protean talents 
are equalled only by his manly beauty. 

Dorothy. Then it's all settled ? 

Goodall. When you have secured your mother's consent, 
yes. [Colonel Tom and Phipps come from house.] For 
your benefit, I will read you the scene which we are to play. 

[iZe gets out his Mss. formally. 

Phipps. He has a victim at last. 
[Goodall ai'ranges his eyeglasses, assumes an attitude, raises 

his arm, clears his throat, etc., when Phipps coming forward 

R. coughs ; Goodall greatly annoyed?^ 



A SON OF THESPIS. 47 

Dorothy. Now, that's what I call a shame. To be interrupted 
at such a time. [Dorothy and Arthur rise and go up c. 

JDorotliy. You see Mr. Wallack about the little details, and 
I'll run down and tell your mamma. 

Arthur. Don't say mamma. 

Dorothy. She is your mamma, aint she V 

Arthur. It's not necessary for you to remind me of it every 
ten minutes. 

Dorothy. And it's not necessary for you to snap me up as 
though I were a child. 

Arthur. You are a child, ain't you ? 

Dorothy. No, I'm not. 

Arthur. What are you, then ? 

Dorothy. I'm a girl. 

Arthur. What's the difference ? 

Dorothy. A great deal of difference. 

Arthur. What is the difference ? 

Dorothy. None of your business. Don't you dare to ever 
speak to me again. From this time forth we are strangers. 
\_She slaps her hat on savagely.^ Is my hat on straight ? 

Arthur. [Savagely.^ No ! 

Dorothy. 'Tis, too ! 
\_Uxit Dora indignantly c. l. Goodall is seated l. reading 

Mss. and using peyicil on it. He is very thoughtful. Arthur 

sits on steps of house. ^ 

Phipps. Now is your time, sir. But don't let him try to 
read his play to you. It's astonishing, but all great men have 
these amiable weaknesses. Richelieu thought that he had 
written a great play. The critics said it was rot. He chopped 
off several of their heads, but he never forgave them. 

Arthur. 0, Mr. Wallack, can I speak to you on a little mat- 
ter of business ? 

Phipps. Certainly. 



48 ' A SON OF THESPIS. 

[Phipps goes wp^ joins Arthur ; they go into house, convers- 
ing in dumb show.~\ 

Colonel. Mr. Betterton, I salute you, sah. Do I intrude 
upon your meditation ? 

Goodall. On the contrary. If you have a half hour's leisure, 
I shall take pleasure in reading to you a scene from my new 
drama, a poor thing, sir, but my own. 

Colonel. I could not think of so far taxing you. 

Goodall. Believe me, sir, it will aiford me pleasure. 

Colonel. Some other time, in the solitude of your chamber, 
with nothing to distract us. [Goodall /oZc^s wj9 Mm.'\ I fancy, 
Mr. Betterton, that in these rural scenes you find a calm rest 
and recreation ? 

Groodall. Yes, sir. Nature is the great fountain from which 
we draw inspiration. The common mother, whose nurture 
warms the heart and invigorates the brain. 

Cokmel. Do you frequently visit the Metropolis, sah ? 

Goodall. Not professionally. I find, sir, that Shakespeare 
is appreciated in his simplicity only in the provincial cities. In 
the great centres of population the demand is for vulgar horse 
play. I touch upon that subject in my new drama. I will read 
you the scene. [^e reaches for his Mss. 

Colonel. Some other time, Mr. Betterton ; I prefer to hear 
you speak of your own experiences. 

Goodall. Alas, the memories, come like shadows, so depart. 
I am an unwilling captive here. I love the great West, the hos- 
pitable South. But I have been a victim to that vaulting ambition 
that o'er-leaps itself and falls on 'tother side. Last winter, as 
the star of the Crummel's Tragic Ago-reo-ation, I enacted Lear 
and Virginus at Bilgeville, Iowa. In the audience was an 
elderly commercial gentleman of the Hebrew persuasion, hail- 
ing from the Metropolis. He was kind enough to compliment me 
highly upon my individual eiForts. He was so good as to say that 
much of my work had reminded him of the great master, 



A SON OF TIIESPIS. 49 

Forrest, whom he had known and admired. He assured me 
that at the present time there was in the Metropolis an 
absolute dearth of legitimate talent ; that rot ran riot at 
the play house ; that the stages of fashionable theatres were 
over-run with variety acts that had grown stale in Bowery beer 
gardens ; that dwarfs and pigmies were masquerading in the 
mantle of the colossal Forrest ; that the devotees of Melpomene 
and Thalia had been driven from their temples by the adven- 
turess and the scarlet woman. In short, said my friend, New 
York is hungry for a good actor ; and so I came, and I have 
learned that New York's theatrical appetite does not crave 
Roman Fathers, avenging Moors or melancholy Danes. 

Colonel. Yet, sah, at an earlier period in your career, possi- 
bly befo' the war, you were not unknown in the Metropolis ? 

Goodall. My professional career, sir, is a post-bellum one. 
Speaking of the war, the leading character in my new drama 
is a soldier. The scene is laid in New Y'ork. Time, 1861. 
I will read you. [ Turns leaves of Mss. 

Colonel. Now, he's off again. I will ixj the other way. Mr. 
Betterton, I see that you wear the button of the Grand Army 
of the Republic. \_He botvs.'\ I am a veteran, too, sir ; but 
I fought on the other side. 
[Betterton gives him his hand and draws him down to a seat 

beside himself.^ 

Goodall. You were born and educated South ? 

Colonel. Yes, sah. And my fathers befo' me, sah. 

Goodall. Y"ou offered your life to a cause which you believed 
to be just. A good citizen could do no less, the bravest soldier 
could do no more. After war's fitful fever 'tis sweet for 
brethren to dwell together in unity and comradeship. 

Colonel. You are right, sah ; and once having appealed to 
the arbitrament of the sword, a true soldier will abide the 
decree of battle. 
4 



50 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Goodall. Had we, in 1865, hung, banished or relegated to 
obscurity a few politicians and demagogues on both sides, leav- 
ing the healing of the wounds to the men who made them, the 
bitterness and rancor of succeeding years would have been 
unknown. 
[Phipps ayid Arthur enter from house. Dorothy enters 

L. u. E.] 

Dorothy. \^To Artliur.^ Mamma consents! Mamma con- 
sents. 0, Mr. Betterton, mamma is (|uite willing for me to 
play the part. [Colonel <md Goodall rise. 

Groodall. Colonel Alchostra, I present my sweet A^iolet. A 
name bestowed by myself. 

Dorothy. \_Takwg Colonel's hand.~\ Yes, sir, and he won't 
hear my real name for fear it might dispel a pleasant illusion, 

Colonel. Indeed, I cannot blame him 

Dorothy. \_Aside.~\ You are the gentleman who has a mes- 
sage for my mamma. She is coming now, with Mrs. Marri- 
gold. [Goodall x. r.] Mr. Betterton won't you wait just a 
moment and meet my mamma. I have told her so much 
about you she will be as charmed to know you as I have been, 
I'm sure. 

Goodall. Even the violet can flatter, without a blush. To- 
morrow I shall have that honor. I'm not i' the vein to-day. 
[Goodall goes up and joins Phipps and Arthur in conver- 
sation. Colonel T. in c. Mrs. Marrigold fl!n(7PniLLis 

enter L. u. E., and come doivn R. of c] 

Dorothy. Colonel Alchostra, this is Mrs. Marrigold, and this 
is my mamma. \_Ketires up. 

Colonel. Ladies, your servant. 

Mrs. Marrigold. If you are the bearer of good news to my 
dear friend, you will find a heart-felt welcome at Marrigold 
Villa. \_Gives hand. 

Colonel. \_Taldng her hand.'\^ My deah Mrs. Marrigold, 
you do me too much honah ; you do, indeed. 



A SON OF THESPIS, 51 

3Irs. MarrigoJd. \^Aside.^ A Southerner? And I do so 
like Southerners, [x. to Phillis,] Invite him to dinner 
to-morrow. [^By-play between Mrs. MARRKiOLD and Piiillis. 

Dorothy. [To Colonel.] Isn't she nice ? 

Colonel. You have expressed my views exactly. 
[Dorothy joins Goodall a??c? Arthur, up. Colonel Tom x. 

L. to Philll'^. Mrs. Marrkjold x. r.] 

Colonel. Be assured, Mrs. Goodall, that I bear only good 
tidings to you and those dear to you. 

Phillis. I shall await ^our pleasure, thankfully. Mrs. Mar- 
rigold hopes that you will join us at dinner to-morrow. 

Colonel. I shall do myself that great honah. 

Dorotliy. [^Pulling Goodall forivard c] Please do, just 
for sweet Violet's sake. [Goodall smiles and comes reluc- 
tantly forward c, his hack toward Phillis and Colonel.] 
Auntie Marrigold, this is Mr. Betterton, and he seems to be a 
regular woman hater. 

Goodall. \_jSmili7i<j pleasantly. '\ A woman hater? Far from 
it ! Who could look into your face and be a woman hater ? 
Besides there are no women haters, though many aftect it. 
[He x's. to Mrs. Marrigold. Phillis, hearing the voice., 

partly rises, Colonel stands so as to hide Goodall.] These 

whims and fancies come and go, but love goes on forever. 
[He t'ikes Mrs. Marrigold's hand, boiving low and very 
politely. '\ 

Phillis. [Aside.'\ Who spoke? Was it a voice from the 
gi'ave ? 
[Goodall turns up c, puts his left arm over the shoulder of 

Phipps a la Hamlet and Horatio, gives his R. hand to Doro- 
thy, ivho goes up c. and joins Arthur c. at back, as 

Goodall and Phipps reach the steps. 

R. RING. L. 

Goodall, Phipps, Dorothy, Arthur, Colonel, 
Mrs. Marrigold. Phillis. 



52 A SON OF THESPIS. 



ACT III. 

Di-aiving rooms of Mrs, Marrigold's Villa, clec/antli/ fur- 
nished^ light summer style ; 3 arches, large c, smaller R. 
and I/, in fats (or drop) opening on veranda, overlooking 
landscape used in Act II. Scene boxed. Practical doors 
R. and L. 3 E., R. and R. and L. 1 E. 3Iasic — waltz, 
distant L. 

\^Enter at rise, Bernard Carroll in full evening dress, 

L. 3 E.] 

Can-oil. Mrs. Man-igold has certainly done the handsome 
thing by the youngster. I have tried in vain to interest her in 
my suit with Phillis. Polite in all things else, the moment I 
touch upon that she freezes. Can it be possible that there's 
an understanding between them ? Of this I am sure, in some 
shape there is danger in the air. That advertisement has 
haunted me from the moment my eye fell upon it. For fifteen 
years the face of Philip Ilawley has been my night-mare, and I 
feel that he is in some way connected with that advertisement. 
A marriage with the daughter of Warren Merrill oft'ers me a 
haven of rest, or at least a vantage ground of defence should 
trouble come. 

l^Hnfer Spott l. 3 e., drunk. His dress suit much too large, 

trousers hide his feet, sleeves hide his hands, coat and vest 

very large and haggy. Carroll looks at him with disgust.^ 

Spott. S'raagnificent blow-out, couldn't have been better if 

they'd left everything to me. The only thing's not a success is 

my dress suit ; it seems to get in my way. Possibly it's because 

I'm not accustomed to dress suits as a steady diet. \_Sees 

Carroll.] Hello ! Carroll, old man, it's a howlin' success I 

Carroll. See, here, Spott 



A SON OP THEPPIR. 53 

Spott. 'Sense me, 3Ir. Carroll, Walker, Sir Major Walker, 
Stock Exchange.' 

Carroll. I'm astonished that a man Avhose profession requires 
coolness, caution and silence, should upon such small provoca- 
tion make such a consummate ass of himself 

Spott. Personal deportments 'smerely matter of 'pinion. 
Don't you worry, your case is safe; leave everything to me. 

Carroll. Where in heaven's name did you get that dress suit ? 

Spott. 'Slucky catch, wasn't it? Rube Hawkins got for me 
from gentleman guest at the Mountain House. I didn't pro- 
pose to discredit your introduction into swell society by appear- 
ing in anything but the regulation uniform. How d's strike 
you '( 

Carroll. It don't appear to strike you at all, excepting at 
the feet. 

Spott. I flatter myself that clothes do not always make the 
man. It's not the custom in best circles to comment on gentle- 
men's personal appearance, but when you want to land on top, 
with both feet on terra cotta, leave everything to me. 

Carroll. Have you been able to pump this Colonel Alchostra, 
or find out who he is ? 

Spott. Leave everything to me Got him down fine. He's 
a chump. He's no Texas Colonel. He's a snide detective from 
Philadelphia. He's a lookin' for Charley Ross yet. No fear 
of his getting onto the racket we're working. Leave every- 
thing to me. 

Carroll. I have repeatedly told you that there is no racket, 
and I am not working anything or anybody. Now, if you 
again refer to my visit here among my old and intimate friends 
in this vulgar manner, I shall see that Mrs. Marrigold's ser- 
vants throw you out. 

Spott. You wouldn't do anything so rash. 

Carroll. Wouldn't I ? You just provoke me a little further 
and see. You don't know me, sir ! \_Uxit Carroll l. 3 e. 



54 A 80N OF THESPIS. 

Spott. Don't I ? Don't ? I know you better than your own 
shadow knows you. Throw me out, eh ! throw me out ! That's 
a joke. And me with the records of Ketchem & Work em at 
my fingers' ends Let me see whether I knoAV you or not ? 
[^Takes out memorandum book, reads brokenly: "Merrill- 
Carroll, bankers; Goodall, Secretary. — Breach of trust. 

— Bank lorecked. — Goodall entered army '61. — H. U. 

Hushed up. — Keep an eye on Philip Hawley, bookkeeper, 

noiv going to the bad. — Also ju7iior partner, Carroll. — 

31. I. I. Money in it. — Addenda : Further developments 

in this case will be found in series for 1863, Vol. XIII, 

pages 35 to 55. B. M. Big money. ^ 

Don't know you, eh ! My partner, Workem, was over 
in Paterson yesterday, making evidence for a sensational 
divorce case, and had the key of the safe deposit, so I couldn't 
get hold of that back number, but I'll have it down fine inside 
of thirty-six hours. 

\_.Enter c. Pikebe and Rube, each with a large bundle. 

Rube. Are you sure we was to come in this way ? 

Phoebe. Of course I am ; Miss Dorothy said she would be on 
the lookout for us. \They see Spott, both drop bundles and 
laugh. 

Spott. You seem greatly amused. 'Tis funny, ain't it ? 
[He laughs affectedly, stops suddeiily.l^ Wonder what the 
devil they see to laugh at ? \^Music.^ Ah, there goes another 
waltz, and the bewitching Widow Marrigold is sighing for my 
return. [Spott ivaltzes off l, stumbles and exits. 

Rube. By geehossiphat ! 

Phoebe. What's the matter ? 

Rube. I hired two suits of the college boy waiters at Moun- 
tain House, one for the little broker and the other for the big 
Texas Colonel. I must have got the rooms mixed. 

Phoebe. It looks as though you got the clothes mixed. 

[Enter Dorothy l. 3 e. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 55 

Dorothy. I saw you coining up the walk. Is that your 
wardrobe ':* 

Phoebe. Yes, I suppose so. Mr. Wallack calls 'em togs. 

Dorothy. You're to go in the reception room there, [r. U. e.] 
The library is adjoining. The gentlemen will dress there. 
Both rooms open on the veranda, so we can go out and come 
iu there. You know Mr. Wallack said particularly that Mr. 
Betterton's entrance would be killed dead if he couldn't come 
in through a centre door. 

\_Enter l. u. e. Arthur, evening dress. 

Arthur. Hello ! Have the actors arrived ? 

Phoebe. Part of us. 

Rube. Well, I'm all here myself. 

PJuebe. And we wish you many happy returns of your 
twenty-first birthday. 

Arthur. Same to you, thank you. 

Rube. Yes, and Uncle Adams wanted me to kinder remind 
you that every young man should be careful how he casts his 
first vote. He is running for Road Commissioner, but of 
course he didn't mention it on that account, but simply on 
general principle like. 

Arthur. Yes, of course, I understand. 

Phoebe. There is nothing mean about Uncle Adams when 
it comes to o-ivino; advice. 

Dorothy. Where is Mr. Wallack ? 

Rube. We left him packing Mr. Betterton's costume. 

Dorothy. In the old champagne-basket? 

Rube and PJioebe. Yes. 

Dorothy. •' The badge of all our tribe," as he calls it. Run 
into the library and leave your bundles. 

Pha'be. All right. \_Exit Ph(i:be with bundles, R. 3 E. 

Rube. \_Pieking up bundle.'] I tell you when I get into 
these swell togs, as Mr. Wallack calls em, I'll just bring down 
the house. 



56 A SON OP THESPIS. 

[Rube stumbles and falls over bundle and through door R. 3 e. 

Dorothy. He's trying to bring down the house before the 
play begins. 

Artliur. Well, if the people don't all fall oif their seats 
when that big hayseed shows up I shall be astonished. 

Dorothy. Don't you worry about him. Last night he was 
trying to back' out of it, and I heard Mr. Wallack tell hiia 
that next to Mr. Betterton he would make the biggest sensa- 
tion of any one. 

Arthur. Well, I guess he will. 

Dorothy. Dear me ! I'm so nervous and anxious. Why 
couldn't we have the play first and let them drink their wine 
and play chess afterwards ? 

Arthur. 0, that wouldn't do. We want to wind up with 
the farce. 

Dorothy. This is not to be a farce, sir. 

Arthur. We can tell better when we have seen it. 

Dorothy. dear ! I suppose you think you must become 
blase and cynical now that you are twenty-one. I hate people 
who know everything. 

Arthur. 0, come now, mother made me promise to begin 
my majority by being jolly and good-natured all day. So 
you can't draw me into a quarrel. 

[Unter Mrs. Marriqold l. u. e ,full evening toilet. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Are you children quarrelling again? 

Dorothy. It wasn't me. 

Arthur. Children ! I suppose I shall never make anyone 
understand that I am not a child until I do something desperate. 
Get married, or let my hair grow, or elope with a married 
woman, or kill somebody. 

Dorothy. Or stop smoking cigarettes. 
[Arthur and Dorothy quarrel in dumb shotv, and exit to 

veranda c. Writer Phillis l. u. e., evening toilet.^ 



A SON OF THESPIS. 57 

Phillis. Why, how mysteriously j^ou vanished, dear ! Col- 
onel Alchostra is disconsolate 

Mrs. Marrigold. That disgusting Major Walker became so 

offensively attentive, that I withdrew to get a breath of air. 

Where could Mr. Carroll have found that creature? 

Phillis. I willgive you my opinion on that subject to-morrow. 
Mrs. Marrigold. Mr. Carroll has not annoyed you ? 
Phillis. Not as yet. 
Mrs. Marrigold.^ Should he do so, I want you to let me 

know, and I shall take pleasure in giving himself and his tipsy 

fritnd their hats. 

Phillis. I shall avoid doirg or saying anything to mar the 

evening's pleasure. But really you must return or Colonel 

Alchostra will do something desperate. 

Mrs. Marrigold. What nonsense you do talk. Has the 

Colonel yet referred to the nature of his mission ? 

Phillis. No, dear, he has evidently became so deeply inter- 
ested in another direction as to h;»ve quite forgotten it. 
Mrs. Marrigold. Why how you do run on, Phillis. 
Phillis. I confess to a liking for the handsome Texan. 

He combines the manly courteousness of a soldier with the 

ingenuousness of a boy. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Well. I declare. The icicle melts ! I 

shall have to warn the Colonel of his danger. 

Phillis. His danger lies in quite another direction, and you 

will be the last to warn him. 

[Colonel Tom Alchostra enters l. 3 e. He has on a dress 
suit much to small for him. Trousers very tight and short, 
coat very tight, sleeves too short, cuffs come below the coat' 
sleeve and bother him continually, an occasional slight show- 
ing of his white shirt betiveen his vest and waistband of 
trousers. Great care will be necessary in this make-up to 
be humorous without being grotesque or unduly extravagant. 
Colonel Alchostka is a gentleman.^ 



58 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Colonel. Ladies, youah most obedient. Do I interrupt a 
private conference? 

Both. 0, no, no. Colonel. 

Colonel. A moment since I fancied that the lights were 
burning low. The beautiful rooms seemed suddenly wrapped 
in darkness, for two of the most brilliant meteors had vanished. 

Mr8. Marrigold. \_To Phillis.] Now, wasn't that pretty. 

Phillis. You are very complimentary, Colonel. But I am 
sure you will now be able to see quite distinctly with one of 
the bright lights ; so, if you will excuse me, I will see what 
mischief my little girl is up to. \^^xit Phillis c, l. 

Colonel l^Solus.^ A most lovely character, truly. What 
a wife and daughter for a fellow to find after eighteen years of 
solitude. How will it end? We shall soon know. But the 
widow must be taken into our confidence at once. 

3Irs. Marrigold. \_Solus^ That's a most extraordinary 
suit of clothes the Colonel wears. It's only his good looks and 
innate dignity that prevent his appearing ridiculous. I sup- 
pose that's a style peculiar to Texas. 

Colonel. \_Coming forward^ My dear Mrs. Marrigold, I 
have sought this opportunity to speak to you upon a subject 
in which I am suah you will be as deeply interested as myself. 

Mrs. Marrigold. \_Aside.~\ Good gracious ! I hope he's not 
going to get serious so soon. I've scarcely enjoyed a tete-a-tete 
yet, to say nothing of a flirtation. [^?omc?.] My dear Colonel, 
I must of necessity feel an interest in all that concerns a guest 
in whose brief acquaintance I have found so much enjoyment. 

Colonel. You do me too much honah, ma'am ; you do, indeed. 

[Mrs. Marrigold sits l. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Won't you be seated, Colonel ? 
[/S'Ae motions him to a seat near her. He moves quickly to 

take it., hut his tight clothes embarrass him.'\ 

Colonel. Thank you, I have been seated for an hour, and I 
find it a positive relief to stand for a change. Ah, my deah 



A SON OP THESPIS. 59 

Mrs. Marrigold, what a eharmed existence you lead surrounded 
by all that wealth and perfect taste can supply, with troops of 
friends vieing with each other to make youah hours pass 
pleasantly. 

Mrs. Marrigold. I have, indeed, everything to be grateful 
for, yet I find my greatest happiness in witnessing the enjoy- 
ment of those about. 

Colonel. I can see it, ma'am, in your every act. \^Tries to 
sit, BUS. as before. Poses against hack of chair.'] And, after 
all, it is more blessed to give than to have it taken unbeknownst, 
or words to that effect. 

Mrs Marrigold. And you never married, Colonel ? 

Colonel. No, ma'am, so far I have escaped ; so far that great 
happiness has been denied me. My life has been without a 
romance, and, excepting one little incident, without a great 
sorrow. 

Mrs. 3Iarrigold. Might I ask the nature of the exception. 
Colonel ? 

Colonel. Certainly. About foah yeah ago I was entertain- 
ing some gentlemen from the North on my ranch near Corsi- 
cana. One day we were hunting jack rabbits when a blamed 
Yankee drummer shot Brown Jessie. 

3Irs. Marrigold. Great heaven ! shot her ! shot Brown 
Jessie! Was she your betrothed, Colonel? 

Colo7iel. 0, no, she was my favorite Gordon setter. 

Mrs. 3Iarrigold. 0, dear ! A Gordon setter ! What a shame. 

Colonel. Oh ! You are fond of dogs. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Yes, indeed ! The big noble ones, setters, 
pointers, shepherds, St. Bernards, Newfoundlands. They 
are all affectionate, and their devotion is beautiful, because so 
unselfish. 

Colonel. \_Aside.~\ This lady is simply bewitching ! 
[ Very enthusiastically . Tries to sit beside her, bus. as before, 

assumes another pose against the chair.] 



60 A SON OF THESPTS. 

3Irs. Marrigold. I think the love of domestic animals a 
virtue all should cultivate. 

Colonel. My views exactly. Speaking of animals, I trust 
you were not seriously annoyed by the attentions of Majah 
Walker. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Somewhat. It was most thoughtful of you 
to come to my rescue. Colonel. 

Colonel. Believe me, my dear Mrs. Marrigold, the gratifi- 
cation is all my own. 
[Colonel makes another effort to sit. Finally sits 07i the arm 

of the chair, which hi'ings them much closer. Their heads 

are very near each other. Dorothy enters c, sees them 

and pantomimes Arthur, who enters C. He remains at 

back observing.~\ 

Mrs. Marrigold. I fear, Colonel, you find our little gather- 
ings dull and uninteresting. 

Colonel. On the contrary, my deah Mrs. Marrigold, the 
hours, too brief, passed in your lovely home and in your 
enchanting presence must ever remain an oasis in the Sahara 
of my life. 

Mrs. Marrigold. You are given to flattery. Colonel. 

Colonel. No ! No ! On my honah. \^Bends forward and 
recovers quickly.^ I could not stoop to flattery. 

Mrs. 3Iarrigold. And you are quite sure that you mean all 
that you say ? 

Colonel. Every word, and moah, much moah ; the tail goes 
with the hide. 

3Irs. Marrigold. \^Aside.^ Good gracious ! What odd say- 
ings those 'iexans have. 

Colonel. \_Bending forivard.^ Oh, my deah Mrs. Marrigold. 
If I dared to indulge the hope that I might some day 

Dorothy and Arthur. Change kears ! 
[Dorothy and Arthur run off quickly. Mrs. Marrigold 

and Colonel jump up.^ 



A SON OF THESPIS. 61 

Afrs. 3Iarrigold. What was that ? 

Colonel. I distinctly heard some one say, change kears ! 

3Irs. Marrigold. And that reminds me, Colonel, that you 
had something important to speak of. 

Colonel. Much. Pray, Tse seated. The delight of finding 
myself alone with you made me foah a time forget why I sought 
you. It is in relation to this actor, Mr. Betterton, who is to 
honah us this evening. Had I known of your design I should 
have urged you not to have brought him heah just at this time ; 
but since it is now to late to retreat, it becomes necessary to 
let you into a secret. 

MvH. Marrigold. A secret ! I just love secrets ! 

Colonel. \^Aside.~\ Why was I not born a secret ! 

Mrs. Marrigold. Eh ? 

Colonel. Then, my dear Mrs. Marrigold, you must know 
that Mr. Betterton — [Wallace enters c. carrying chavipagne- 
hasket. Sivords on top., cf-c. He advances R.] Avho is to 
appear befoah us this evening is none other than 

Wallack. \_C'jughs.~\ Excuse me, but I was not sure 
whetiter I had made a mistake. 

Mrs. 3Iarrigold. 0, no, Mr. Wallack ; you are quite right. 
The library and reception rooms \^points R.] will be used as 
dressing rooms. Make yourself entirely at home. 

Wallack. Thank you, ma'am. If not presuming, I should 
like a moment's conversation with Colonel Alchostra. 

Mrs. 3Iarrigold. Most certainly. 

Colonel. Allow me to conduct you to the doah. \_She takes 
his arm.] Allow me to tote youah fan. \_He escorts her cere- 
moniously to door L. I. E., hows very low, hands her fan, and, 
as she takes if, ki.9.ses her hand gallantly. E.rit Mrs. Mar- 
rigold, L. I. e] 

Colonel. Now, Mr. Wallack. 

Wallack. Colonel, I'm getting terribly nervous, as the time 
approaches. Mr. Betterton has been morose and gloomy all 



62 A 80N OF TIIESPIS. 

day. An unusual thing. He is very pale and has eaten 
nothing. He is not well, and I fear the terrible shock of this 
meeting will be too much for him. 

Colonel. Nonsense, my deah fellow ; men do not die from 
excess of joy. 

Wallack. I know him better than you do, sir. He is ner- 
vous and sensitive. He carries two Confederate bullets in his 
shoulder and thigh, and an ugly sabre cut in the left side. He 
has had to give up playing Richard and Macbeth, on account 
of the excitement of the combats. Last winter he was playing 
The Strange)', one night in Rogersville, Iowa. The story is 
simihir to his own iiistory. He was completely absorbed in 
the character, and when he was introduced to Mrs. Haller and 
recognized his own wife, instead of making an exit L. I. E., he 
stiffened up, turned ghastly Avhite and fell to the floor in a 
heap. Tiie old sabre cut broke open, he had a raging fever 
for three weeks, and was as crazy as a loon. It was a close 
call. He hasn't the least fear of death, but lives in mortal 
terror of again losing his mind. 

Colonel. Your concern does credit to your head and heart, 
Mr. Wallack, but I feel confident that the denouement will be 
a bright and not a tragic one. 

Wallack. I hope so, sir. But this absurd play that he has 
written is in some respects a reflex of incidents of his own life 
touched up with flights of imagination. That's what makes 
me fear a sudden meeting. Have you yet arranged how they 
are to meet ? 

Colonel. No. I shall explain all to Mrs. Marrigold and 
trust her woman's wit. Excuse me, Mr. Wallack, and I will 
attend to it at once. [^UxU Colonel Alchostra l. 3 e. 

Wallack. [Seated at basket.^ Well, if this comedy don't 
end in a tragedy I shall be thankful. 



A RON OF THESPIS. 63 

[Dorothy, PHffinE, Rube and Arthur all enter from points 

of last exit, and gather about Wallack, all talking at once.~\ 

All. 0, Mr. Wallack, we've been waiting for you. 

Phxhe. If I'm to play the mother of a young lady, I ought 
to have white hair. 

Wallack. Nonsense ! Stage mothers never grow old. You 
just study the art of making yourself look young, if you want 
to act. Nature will attend to the wrinkles and white hairs 
sooner than you'll like. 

Rube. I know doggone well I can't get my legs into them 
gol-darned yellow plush breeches. 

Wallack. I know better. I've worn 'm a hundred times. 

Rube. You've worn 'em ? Weil, that's different. 

Dorothy. 0, Mr. Wallack, I've got such a lovely dress, one 
of my commencement dresses. Mamma and Mrs. Marrigold 
sat up nearly all night fixing it over for me. Do you think 
I'll remember what I have to sav ? 

Phrebe. Are you sure 1 won't forget my verses? 

Rube. Well, you just tell me when it's time for me to come 
out, and I'll be all right — if I don't forget the things I have 
to say. 

Arthur. I'd like to be the manager of that company. 
Haven't you got a part for me? 

Wallack. Yes, you might set the stage. 

■All. Set the stage ? 

Wallack. Yes, arrange the furniture and carry off the dead. 

All. 0, yes, of course. 

Dorothy. That'll just suit him. \_All laugh at Arthur. 

DorotJiy. Now, what do we want first ? 

Wallack. Chairs. 

All. Chairs ! \^All rush off, each at dfferent entrance. 

Wallack. Well, there was an exit for a farce comedy. 

\_All re-enter., each with a chair. 

All. Chairs! 



64 A SON OF THESPIS. 

{^They hmig the chairs doivn, hitting Rube's feet. 

Rube. Geehosiphat ! Do you suppose the whole audience 
want to sit on my feet '( 

Dorothy. Well, they must sit somewhere, musn't they ? 

[^All laugh at Rube. 

Wallack. Now then arrange them in that end of the room. 

\_Tltey arrange chairs R. and L. well down to curtain line, 

leaving C. open.~\ 

Wallack. Now wait till I get the flag. 

All. The flag ! 

Wallack. Certainly. This is a military drama, and we 
want banners, guns, swords, and all the gorgeous panoply of 
war. 
[i/ie takes fl'igs from basket and drapes them over chairs R. 

and L.] 

Dorothy. 0, dear ! 

All. What is it ? 

Dorothy. We ought to have a cannon. 

All. A cannon ! 

Arthur. Sure enough. Who's got a cannon ? 

Dorothy. I know ! I know where there's one. 

All Where? 

Dorothy. Don't you remember the great big brass cannon 
sticking in the ground by the soldiers' monument, down in the 
cemetery ? Rube, you run down and get it. 

[All look at Rube. 

Rube. Say, this thing's gone far enough. I'm engaged to 
act out an old family servant on the stage, and not to rob 
cemeteries. 

Dorothy. 0, you're too particular, ain't he Mr. Wallack ? 
Wallack. Altogether, there's nothing unreasonable about 
it, the woods are full of graveyard comedians. 

Arthur. That's so. They have a couple of 'em in all of 
the comic operas. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 65 

Wallaclc. Here are the music cues. 

[Producer roll of paper. 
All. Music cues ! 

Dorothi/. Do we have music in the play ? 
Wallack. Do we ? Do you suppose Mr. Betterton could 
make an entrance without music? There is an orchestra, of 
course. 

Dorothy. yes, they are playing for the dancers now. 
Arthur. I'll take them in and explain to them. 
[Arthur exits i.. 3 e. taking paper from Wallack. Enter 
L. I. E. Mrs. Marrigold.] 

3Irs. Marrigold. Come now, scamper and get ready fol" 
your play. There's a gentleman coming who must not see you 
here. 

[Phoebe, Rube and Wallock exit r. 3. e. Wallack taking 
basket. 

Dorothy. Who is coming, Auntie ? 

Mrs. Marrigold. Mr. Betterton. I made him promise to 
come in time for a little visit before the play. I was inter- 
ested in him. 

Dorothy. Of course you were. You couldn't help being. 
No more could I. I just love to be near him. He is so 
gentle and sweet, and so polished and talks so beautifully I 
could sit at his feet for hours and listen. 
Music — Auld Lang Syne. Enter c. l. Mr. Goodall, in 
full evening toilet. Neat and fashionable, but eccentric, 
Byronic collar, cuffs rolled back ov^r coat sleeves. He 
passes his hat aiid coat to Servant ivho follows him. Ser- 
vant exits R. 3 E. Dorothy runs to meet him. He advances, 
holding her hand. 

Mrs. Marrigold. You are most kind to favor us, Mr. Bet- 
terton, though we had hoped for your pleasure at dinner. 
5 



66 A PON OF THESPIS. 

Goodall. Most gracious of you. But I seldom dine preced- 
ing ray professional labors. My sweet Violet ! The sight of 
that bright face should inspire us all. 

Dorothy. I shall be happy if I don't spoil your scene. 

Gfoodall. I do not fear it. I observed you closely at 
rehearsal to-day. You have sincerity and enthusiasm added 
to the dramatic instinct. These qualities combined constitute 
that mysterious entity sometimes called genius. Only this, 
don't act. Be yourself, your sweet, ingenuous self. 

Dorothy. I'll try, sir. 

CroodaU. No, don't try. You will not act the scene, you 
will live it. [Dorothy runs off r. 3 e. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Won't you be seated, Mr. Betterton ? 

Goodall. Thank you. [^Sits R. c. 

3Irs. Marrigold. I fear you will regret that our young folks 
found out your quiet retreat. 

Croodall. On the contrary, I love young people, and these 
have been most delightful chums. Your son is a noble fellow, 
who will, I trust, bring honor to your name, and his sweet 
companion has shone in upon my quiet life like a ray of blessed 
sun-light. She is srd generis. 

Mrs. Marrigold. She is, indeed, a most lovable child. Her 
father, who was killed during the rebellion, had been at one 
time a member of your profession. 

Goodall. So I learned from her yesterday. It makes her 
doubly interesting to me, for I have been a son of Mars, as well 
as Thespis, in my time. 

Mrs. Marrigold. X^ue ! You had the courage to become a 
soldier, and yet you remained a bachelor. How unkind to 
our sex. 

Goodall. The meanest coward must die. It is the inevitable. 
But knowingly to march to the altar requires the courage of a 
lion. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 67 

3Irs. Marrigold. Now you are quoting, and not responsible 
for the sentiment. I have observed, Mr. Betterton, that the 
greatest triumphs of the greatest artists have been achieved 
after love came to inspire them. 

Groodall. In more serious vein, I frankly agree with you, 
that mysterious power can raise us to the clouds or crush us to 
the earth. It inspires us to our noblest eiforts, or tempts us 
to dishonor and disgrace, according to the strength or weak- 
ness of our character. True love is at once the foundation 
and the coping stone of every perfect life. 

3Irs. 3IarrigoId. Now the man speaks, not the actor. 

Groodall. True. I seldom speak of myself; the subject, at 
best, is uninteresting. But it is the breathing time of day 
with me, and something in your gracious manner invites me. 

Mrs. Marrigold. I beg that for the time you will forget the 
professional character of your visit, Mr. Betterton, and remem- 
ber only that you are my guest, my honored guest. 
\_'She offers her hand, wldch GooDALL takes with great polite- 
ness. '\ 

Goodall. I thank you. {A pause.) What poor weak crea- 
tures we strong men are. In our egotism, miscalled pride, we 
gird ourselves about with an impenetrable armor of secrecy. 
For years we stride the earth nursing our real or fancied 
griefs or wrongs. The past a grave of buried hopes, the pres- 
ent a fight with our better natures, the future an unmarked 
grave. And in our selfish solitude we cry, youth is a hope, 
manhood a a struggle, age a regret. 

Mrs. Marrigold. But some day the awakening comes ! 

Goodall. Yes ; some day a gentle hand touches our panoply 
of steel, and lo ! it crumbles at our feet, and we stand 
revealed in all our poverty of pride. And then the voice of 
nature cries aloud within us, Give me to drink ! Give me to 
drink from the fountain of human sympathy, ere I sink 
unknown by the way side. 



68 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Mrs 3Iarrigold. This strange man has a history. 

Goodall. It is not so many years, for I am but forty-five, 
since I was a so-called popular idol. Men of note 
delighted to honor me, fair women courted me and blushing 
maidens haunted me with their autograph albums. Then the 
cry of war went abroad through the land I saw friends and 
associates rushing to arms. The cry of Mars drowned the 
pleading voice of Tliespis. And then a greater power than 
either came to shape my destiny. That subtle spell that 
makes kings of serfs and serfs of kings had fallen upon me. I 
felt the hallowed joy that comes with a chaste woman's love. 

3Irs. Marrigold. And once more history repeated itself, and 
Venus conquered Mars. You won her ? 

Gioodall. Yes, I won her, and in a few brief months I lost 
her. 

Mrs. Marrigold. So soon ! A few months ! [ J-s/tZe] IIow 
much his story resembles that of dear Phillis. \_Aloud.~\ How 
you must have suffered. 

Goodall. Suffered ! I did. I sought oblivion upon the 
battle-field. Death became desired as Daphne by the eager 
Day God. Like him I chased the nymph to grasp the laurel. 
I could not even die. And when the fratricidal struggle 
ended, Thespis wooed me back again. Possibly had I returned 
with Fox to the old Bowery, I might have kept more nearly 
abreast the times. But I had mingled Avith the rough-handed, 
warm-hearted men of the West and South. I had fought them 
on many fields and slept beside them at many camp-fires, and 
so I linked my fate with theirs. I became, in short, what the 
more favored members of our guild are pleased to call a barn- 
stormer. 

Mrs. Marrigold. But you occasionally visit the Metropolis ? 

Gioodall. Seldom — professionally. Acting in the Metropo- 
lis is one of the lu.Kuries, to be indulged in only by the rich, 
the speculative or the lucky. Being none of these, I am content 



A SON OF THESPIS. 69 

to strut my brief hour where my poor efforts still touch a respon- 
sive chord. They cannot always welcome me in gilded temples, 
but from the rough benches their big human hearts go out to 
the Master's noble thoughts, and so for a time linger with the 
poor player, striving in his weak way to give them form and 
pressure, I do not miss the glaring lights or gilded domes, 
for in those brief hours the dusky Moor lives again in Venice 
and Cyprus. And in Hamlet's inky cloak I feel again the 
nipping and eager air upon the platform where Bernardo 
watched, or wander in feigned madness through the stately 
halls of Elsinore. 

3Irs. 3Iarrigold. And so you are content with your lot ? 

Goodall. Perfectly. Community of thought is superior to 
geographical lines. The hours in which I live with Shake- 
speare are not passed in Oshkosh or Grass Valley. 

Mrs. Marrigold. I must thank you for a most delightful 
half hour. It is so natural for those who have not achieved 
distinction to rail at the world, and regard themselves as 
neglected geniuses. 

Goodall. We all receive what it is good for us to have, either 
in reward or chastisement. There is a special Providence in 
the fall of a sparrow, and, in erring reasons spite, this truth 
is manifest, whatever is — is right. 

\_Enter Colonel Alchostra, l. 3 e. 

Colonel. With my usual stupidity or ill-luck, I have inter- 
rupted a tete-a-tete. 

Mrs. Marrigold. 0, no. Colonel. [Goodall hows and 
saunters about, looking up pictures, etc.'\ Mr. Betterton has 
been entertaining me most delightfully. 

Colonel. Then you like my quaint friend ? 

Mrs. Marrigold. He is a most interesting character. Frankly, 
Colonel, I expected to be amused by an actor's eccentricities. I 
have been entertained by a gentleman's conversation. 



70 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Colonel. In fact, you came to scoif, and you remained to 
apologize for barking up the wrong tree, or words to that effect. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Precisely. 

Colonel. Which brings me to the subject for which I have 
been seeking you. As I said before, it is a secret. 
[GoODALL sits in background and takes out and reads his 

3Iss.] 

The peculiar combination of circumstances which have 
resulted in bringing this gentleman under your roof at this 
critical moment render it necessary for me to confide to you 
a secret which I had hoped to reveal at a time and place of 
my own selection, and under circumstances which I might 
deem for the best interests of all concerned. 

3Irs. 3Iarrigold. Good gracious, Colonel ! How long you 
are coming to the secret. What is that about procrastination 
being the thief of time ? 

Colonel. Quite right, my dear Mrs. Marrigold. Procrasti- 
nation is the root of all evil, or words to that effect. I remem- 
ber some years ago I had a very deah friend, Majah Bragg, of 
San Antonio. The Majah was a victim of the terrible habit of 
procrastination. He was engaged to a most charming young 
lady. Miss— Miss — 

Mrs. Marrigold. 0, never mind the name. Colonel. 

Colonel. I don't seem to mind it just now. However, the 
Majah couldn't seem to find time to marry the young lady, 
and one beautiful morning while the Majah was trying to 
make up his mind, the young lady married one of the Majah's 
particular friends. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Of course, the Major shot the man ? 

Colonel. Well, not exactly; he said it was his intention to 
do so, but he somehow never got around to it ; force of habit 
you see, force of habit. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Will he ever come to that secret ? 



A SON OP THESPIS. 71 

Colonel. I said to him one day, Majah says I, some day the 
angel Gabriel will toot his horn for you, and you won't be 
ready, and sho enough he did. 

Mrs. 3Iarrigold. Did what ? 

Colonel. Blow his trumpet. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Who, the Major ? 

Colonel. No, ma'am, the angel Gabriel. 

Mrs. 3Iarrigold. 0, then the Major is dead ! 

Colonel. 0, no. He wasn't ready. He's living down thar 
in San Antonio yet, I reckon. 

[GooDALL comes forward with Mss. 

Goodall. I thought it possible you might be interested in a 
trifle I have here. 

3Ir8. 3Iar7'igold. We cannot fail to be interested, Mr. Bet- 
terton. \_Aside.~\ I woiider if I shall ever learn that secret. 

Goodall. It is an act from my last drama. A poor thing, 
sir, but my own. But I shall bore you. 

Both. 0, no ! no ! 

Goodall. \_Ceremoniously .'] This might be called a military 
drama, the incident being connected with our great inter- 
necine struggle. I will read the scene which I propose to pre- 
sent for your approval this evening. I will premise with a 
brief outline of the plot. Through some cause, a young hus- 
band and wife have quarreled during their honeymoon. The 
Avife is proud and silent, the husband sullen and unrelenting, 
and so they part. The great world swallows him. The young 
wife bears her absent husband a lovely daughter. Ten years 
have passed, when for the first time she hears of the absent one. 
A terrible war is raging throughout the land. The papers 
contain accounts of the achievements of a daring soldier from the 
far West. His portrait is in every windoAV. It is the long- 
silent husband and father. She follows his brilliant career 
through five weary years of war. The end has come, peace 
has been proclaimed. The conquering army returns to greet 



72 A SON OF THESPIS, 

the loved ones at home. Through the densely crowded streets, 
spanned with triumphal arches, he rides proudly at the head 
of his regiment of cavalry. [Wallack enters R. 3 E, Comes 
doivn sloioly.~\ His daughter, now a lovely girl of fifteen, 
recognizes her father by portraits she has seen. The wife is 
weeping in the solitude of her chamber. Then comes the 
scene which I will now read to you. 

[ZTe spreads his Mss. ceremoniously, clears his throat, raises 

his arm for an impressive gesture — tvhen Wallace 

coughs. ~\ 

Wallack. \_Ooughing.'] [Good Ai.1, greatly disgusted,Goi.ON'EL 
and Mrs. Marrigold aimoyed.^ Pardon me. Colonel Bet- 
terton, but it lacks only fifteen minutes of curtain time. 

Goodall. [Rising.^ True. I must beg you to excuse me, 
Mrs. Marrigold. 

Mrs. Marrigold. I am sorry to have missed your reading of 
the scene, but a story so full of human interest and so graphi- 
cally told, cannot fail of success. 

Goodall. The lot of the poor dramatist were, indeed, a happy 
one had all his critics natures as sympathetic and responsive 
as your own. 
\_He presses her hand politely. Bows to Colonel K, goes up 

to door R. followed by Wallack. Exit R. 3 e. Goodall 

and Wallack.] 

Mrs. Marrigold. Now, then, I shall learn the secret. Now, 
Colonel, since we are alone again, haven't you forgotten some- 
thing ? 

Colonel. Possibly; who could blame me, if, in this blissful 
atmosphere, I forgot everything but your presence. 

Mrs. Marrigold. [Aside.'] Now that was really pretty ; 
indeed, it would have been beautiful if his clothes only fitted 
him a little better. [Aloud.] But, Colonel, can it be possible 
that you have forgotten the secret ? 



A SON OF THESPIS. 73 

Colonel. Oh ! The secret ! \^He starts suddenly, tries to sit 
hut stops, and bends fortvard, liolding on hack of her chair.~\ 
Pray, pardon my stupidity, Mrs. Marrigold, the secret is this : 
\^He looks cautiously about room and then whispers in her ear, 

gesticulating to indicate Goodall. Her face expresses 

great astonishment.^ 

3frs. Marrigold. You can't mean it ! Mr. Betterton the 
husband of 

Colonel. 'Sh ! even the walls must not hear it. 
\_He ivhispers her again. They continue a pantomimic conver- 
sation. Spott enters, still tipsy.'] 

Spott. 'Smagnificent blow-out. Wish some one would have 
a birthday every day, and leave everything to me. I think 
I've made an impression on the lovely widow. Wonder where 
she is ; 'stonishin' what became of her. Guesss he's gone into 
the garden where she could have more room to think of me 
[AS'ft's Colonel.] What's that? Why, it's Texas. Wonder'fe' 
knows what a reediculous figure he's making of himself. I hate 
a man who don't know how to wear a dress suit. \_Sees Mrs. 
Marrigold.] Hello! There's the lovely widow, come here 
to meet me, and being talked to death by a man whose clothes 
don't fit'im. I'll stop it. Break away ! [Colonel and Mrs. 
Marrigold start.~\ 'Scuse me, just a pleasant little way we 
brokers have. Mrs. Marrigold, we have missed you ; I have 
missed you. I have sought this oper — this oper — this comic 
opera tune-ity. \_Crosses and forces himself offensively close 
to Mrs. Marrigold.] — to express my appreciation of your 
magnificent hos — hospi — hospital. 

Colonel. \_Orossing L. and taking Mrs. M's. hand.] Allow 
me, Mrs. Marrigold, to escote you to a moah congenial and 
less aromatic atmosphere. 
\^She rises and drops her handkerchief. Colonel picks it up 

with difficulty. She offers to take it.] 

Colonel. Allow me to tote it. 



74 A SON OF THESPIS. 

[^Colonel escorts her cerevioniously to door L. i. E. He Jdsses 

her handkerchief and passes it to her. jShe kisses it and 

runs off L. I. E. Colonel swells up with satisfaction, turns 

and sees Spott glaring at him.~\ 

Spott. \^Aside'] I think he's a big bluff. I'll call him. 
[^?o?^cZ.] Do you know, sir, that your manner's most 
offensive. 

Colonel. \_Turning quickly. ~\ Look heah, sah! — [f^vOTT jumps 
behind his chair R.] \^Aside.^ I must not quarrel with this 
vulgar loafer in this lady's house. 

Spott. \_Aside.'] I knew it! He 's a chump! \_Comes 
from behind his chair.'] Yes, sir, I repeat it, sir ; 's most 
'fensive. 

Colonel. \^Turning quickly.] Do you know, sah — \_Spott 
gets R as before.] I 've a great mind, sir — Look heah, 
Mr— Mr.— 

Spott. Walker, sir ; Major Walker, Stock Exchange ; 
and I'm a gentleman, sir. 

Colonel. I am very glad, sah, that you mentioned it. When a 
gentleman assures me that he 's a gentlemen, then I know it; 
otherwise I might make a mistake. 

Spott. \_Aside.] I thought I 'd settle him. [Aloud.] Yes, 
sir; 's always best to have these things understood. 'S why 
I mentioned it. 

Colonel. Quite right, sah. I am pleased to learn that the 
gentlemen of the Stock Exchange drink their champagne from 
celery glasses, also that they soak their crackers in the finger 
bowl and use the table cloth fo' a napkin. Lik'ise, that they 
use their napkin fo' a pocket handkerchief, and knock the 
crumbs out of their whiskers with a foak, yes sah, with a foak. 

Spott. [Sivelling up.] This is pussonal. 'Scuse me, sir; 
did you intend that to be pussonal ? 
[Gomes forward. Colonel turns quickly, Spott retreats 

behind chair.] 



A SON OF THESPIS. *75 

Colonel. [^Aside.^ What nonsense ! He's not worth being 
angry with. 

Spott. \_Aside.~\ Now I know he's a chump. \_Comes for- 
ivard.^ Allow me to observe, sir, that your oflFensive atten- 
tions to my dear Mrs. Marrigold 

Colonel. Look heah, sah \_Turns. SvoTi retreats behind 

chair,'] if you again soil that lady's name with youah drunken 
breath, I shall assume the responsibility of getting a pitchfoak, 
sah, and toting you out to the stable, and dumping you where 
you belong, sah. 

Spott. 'S'gettin' desperate. I've got to make a big bluff or 
he'll do it. \_Comes fortvard.] 'Scuse me, sir, you've made 
a mistake, sir. 'S'mi card, sir; 's'mi card. 
\_Fumbles about for card, which he shoves under Colonel's 

nose, and assumes an attitude of drunken dignity against 

chair.] 

Colonel. \_Suddenli/.'] Youah card, sah ! [Spott jumps 
as before. Colonel reads card.] What's this : " Spott and 
Bleedem, private detectives, (successors to Ketchem and 
Work em)." [Aside.] So! A private detective. I was right 
at first sight. I must not quarrel with this fellow. He may 
be made useful to me. 

jSpott. [Aside.] I thought the card would settle him. He's 
a big Texas bluff. [Comes forward cautiously/] [Aloud.] Well, 
sir ; well, sir. 

Colonel. Really, Majah Walker, I have no desire to be 
offensive, I assure you, and if 

Spott. Say no more, sir. [Spott rushes and grasps Col- 
onel's hands effusively.] Say no more. I accept your 
apology. There's nothing mean about me when it comes to 
accepting anything. 

Colonel. I know it, sah. Anyone could see it sah. 

Spott. Certainly ; one gentleman can always tell another 
gentleman by the way his clothes fit. 



76 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Colofiel. Of course, sail. The tailor makes the gentleman 
every time, sah. 

Spott. Dead sure. \_Tliey move L.] If you ever want a 
friend, say nothing, but leave everything to me. 

Colonel. I will, sah, of course. 
{^They exit arm in arm L i. e. Enter l. 3 e. Phillis, /o^- 

lotved hy Bernard Carroll.] 

PliilUs. I am at a loss, Mr. Carroll, to understand why I 
should be again annoyed with your attentions. 

Carroll. Surely, a respectful admiration that has survived 
two decades of years is worthy being considered something 
more than an annoyance. 

PJdllis. Persecution would, perhaps, be a better term. 

Carroll. Now, you are angry. But it is encouraging to 
feel that I have at least overcome your indifference. 

Phillis. You gravely err in supposing that I have ever lost 
faith in my husband's entire innocence, or abandoned the hope 
that that innocence Avill, even yet, be fully established and the 
guilty one, whoever he may be, exposed and brought to justice. 

Carroll. None would rejoice more sincerely than myself to 
see your faith justified. 

Phillis. Possibly. Investigators of crime look first for a 
motive. William Goodall had no possible motive for such 
baseness. His one error, which was more mine than his, was 
our secret marriage. This error he frankly confessed, and 
that confession, so fatally misconstrued by my poor father, 
drove him forth under a terrible misapprehension. My father 
was financially wrecked and hurried to his grave, but the 
junior partner, the creature of his bounty, grew rich and 
opulent. 

Carroll. True. But did I not promptly offer to share that 
wealth with you if you would avail yourself of your rights, 
and secure a separation from the criminal ? 



A PON OF TIIEi^PIS. 77 

Phillis. You (lid. An insult which I scorned then as I 
scorn it now. Thanks to that criminal's thoughtfulness, that 
home which he left to his wife and unborn child soon became 
a mo<lest fortune, which has kept them above worldly needs. 
This was not the act of a thief and forger. It stands in 
glowing contrast to the conduct of a man who so poorly judges a 
woman's heart, that, with the instincts of a huckster, he would 
bargain for a something whiph he has not the manhood to 
appreciate nor the soul to understand. \^Exit Phillis l. 3 e. 
Carroll. Years have not changed her heart, nor time 
softened her resentment. Yet those years have steadily 
increased my apprehensions. The one thing that could allay 
them is a marriage with Warren Merrill's daughter, and that 
seems now more impossible than ever. Night after night sleep 
is denied me. Each new face and every strange voice startles 
me. A sudden ring at the bell seems to stop the blood in my 
veins. Last night, in my restless dreams, I stood again on 
the old abandoned pier, with the storm raging about me. I 
went through the terrible struggle, and as all grew still I could 
see the ghostly face, half under water, floating outward with 
the tide. The fixed, staring eyes looked wildly into mine. 
I turned to escape the glassy glare, and woke. W* ke to enter 
upon another day of terror and suspense. 
[/7« drops into a chair. Small liand-bell rings R. 3 v.. for the 
play. Colonel Alchostra escorts Mrs. Marrkjold to 
seats R. COR. Arthur escorts Phillis to seats r. Ladies 
a7id gentlemen take seats l. and R., te7i to twenty, accord- 
ing to capacity of the stage. Carroll takes seat in l. cor. 
Spott comes last with no lady and sits L. in disgust, glaring 
at Colonel Alchostra and Mrs. Marrigold. Music 
stops when all are seated. Wallack, dressed as an old 
man, enters R. 3 E. and arranges the furniture for the scene. 
He hangs a small flag on picture L., and puts flowers on 
table l. as he starts to exit R. 3 E.] 



78 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Spott. [^Applauding.'] Supe ! Supe ! 
Qarroll. \_To Spott.] Don't be an ass. 
Spott. I will. Don't be impertinent. I am familiar with 
the customs and traditions of all well regulated theatres. 



A PLAY WITHIN A PLAY. 

SCENES FROM THE FOURTH ACT OF A MILITARY DRAMA CALLED 

LOVE AND FAME; 

OR, 

A SOIvDIKR'S WIKK. 

BY THE EMI>fENT TRAGEDIAN, 
F. Junius Betterton. 



Characters Kepresented : 

COL. EEGINALD WOODLEIGH, . . . F. Junius Betterton. 

AMELIA, His Wife, Miss Phcebe Adams. 

ALICE, His Daughter, aged 15, . . Miss Dorothy Goodall. 
JONATHAN BARRON, Mrs. Woodleigh's Father, Burton Wallack. 
WM. BULL, Servant to Mrs. VVoodleigh, . . Reuben Hawkins. 

Time, 1865. Scene, the drawing room of Mrs. Woodleigh's residence, 
New York City. 



\_Enter Amelia "VVoodleigh, r. 3 e. She is dressed ricldy 
but quietly. She x's. L. and looks at picture on easel sadly.] 

Amelia. My noble husband! So dearly loved, so thought- 
lessly lost, so bitterly mourned. This day he returns in 
triumph from the w^ar. Will he seek his wife and child, or is 
his heart indeed, dead alike to affection and memory ? 

[Unter r. 3 e. Jonathan Barron. 



A PON OF THESPIS. 79 

Barron. Come, come, me clieild, do not stand forever 
weeping by bis portrait. 

Amelia. Can you blame me, father ? Do you know what day 
this is? It is the sixteenth anniversary of our marriage. 
Alice is fifteen to-day. \^3Iusic outside.'] Do you hear that 
music? A victorious army returns, crowned with triumphant 
wreathes. The surviving heroes of many battles will be 
clasped in the loving arms of wives, mothers, sweethearts, 
lovers and daughters, while here in solitude I wait for one word 
from him whom 1 so dearly loved, so foolishly wronged by a 
cruel doubt. He will pass yonder under my very windows, 
the windows in which we have passed so many loving hours. 
The famed soldier whom a nation honors will ride proudly by, 
casting no glace at his once happy home, giving no sign to 
his despairing wife or the beautiful daughter whom he has 
never seen. [^She sits c. iveeping. 

Barron. Poor child ! Poor child ! Heaven knows that I 
have tried to do me duty by her. For years I vainly sought 
him, to bring two loving hearts together. But the earth 
seemed to have swallowed him. Year after year, through 
weary days and tedious nights I continued the sleepless shirt 
— shirtless sleep — sleepless search. 1 knew I'd go upon that 
line. The idea of a man writing such infernal language, 
anyway. 

[Alice enters from balcony r, e. Music. 

Alice. mamma, grandpa, quick, quick, come and see how 
brave and handsome they look I See the beautiful children 
throwing flowers under the horses' feet. 0, dear ! why didn't 
I have some flowers ? \_Slie runs and yets flowers from table 
L, and throws them doivn outside ; takes bouquet from her 
bosom and throios it; then gets flag from picture l. and 
waves it.] Take these, and these ! I am a soldier's daughter. 
\^A great cheer outside and music forte. Alice waving flag 

and throwing kisses.] 



80 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Alice. \_Gfoing to Amelia.] 0, my sweet mamma. You 
are crying, and I so gay and thoughtless. Forgive me, 
mamma, forgive me. 

Amelia. There is nothing to forgive, my darling. I Avant 
always to see you thus, happy and light-hearted. Do not let 
my idle tears cause you one serious thought. 
[Mr. Bull rushes in ii. c. He has on livery coat., large tvhite 

choker, well around wider Ms ear, trousers in his boot-legs, 

a wild scraggy-looking red wig. He falls over a chair. 

Mises, gasps ivildly, ivith his arm in the air. Cant 

speak.'] 

Bull. I knew doggone well I'd forget that stuff. 

[ Voice outside L. prompting. 

Voice. The fifth regiment of cavalry. 

Bull. The fifth regiment of calvary. 

Voice. Cavalry, you fool. 

Bull. Cavalry, you fool. , 

Voice. Is just entering the avenue. 

Bull. Is just entering the avenue. 

Voice. With Colonel Woodleigh on a snow white steed. 

Bull. With Colonel Woodleigh on a snow white sheet. 

Voice. Steed. 

Bull. Steed. 

Voice. Proudly marching at its head. 

Bull. Proudly marching on his head. 

Voice. Come off", you infernal idiot. 

Bull. Come off", you infernal idiot. 

Barron. \_To Bull.] Quick, hurry to the street, attract 
Colonel Woodleigh's attention, tell him to hasten here, that 
it is a matter of life and death. Quick ! Away ! 

Bull. I fly. 
\^He falls over a piece of furniture and rushes off extrava- 
gantly R. u. E.] 

Amelia. 0, father! what have you done? 



A SON OF THESPIS. 81 

Barron. My duty to both my children. 

Amelia. He will not come. 

Barron. Then he will be unworthy of your love. 

Alice. He will come, my heart tells me so, and I shall 
see my brave, handsome Either at last. \_Music as before. 
Alice riDis out on veranda c waving h'indkerchief.'\ Yes, 
mamma, it is he, it is my father; I know him by his portrait 
there, and now Mr. Bull has caught his eye; he runs along 
beside the horse. And now the handsome soldier lifts his hat. 
See, mamma, see, my papa lifts his helmet and waves his 
plumes at me ; and now — 

Colonel Woodleigh. [o^ L. U. e.] Battalion halt! [Bugles 
sound the " halt.''^ 

Colonel Woodleigh. [off L. u. E.] In place rest. 
[Bugles sound '•'■rest'' followed by the sound of changing 

sabers, et.c.~\ 

Amelia. 0, my poor heart ! how will it end ? 

Barron. Courage, me child. Let conscious innocence sustain 
you. 
[Music forte. Alice has re-entered the room, standing R. c. 

back. Enter L. u. E. Colonel Woodleigh, full uniform 

of Colonel of United States cavalry in 1865. He wears 

wig worn in first Act, face young, reproducing the Goodall 

of Act 1. He stops c. Music stops. At sight of him 

Phillis and Carroll both jump to their feet. ~\ 

Phillis. My God ! [Sinks back in chair. 

Carroll. Goodall ! alive ! 

Colonel Alchostra. [Aside to Mrs. Marrigold.] What 
shall we do ? 

3Irs. 3farrigoM. [Aside.^ Wait! Wait! Providence will 
guide us. 

Colonel Woodleigh. [At back ] Why am I summoneil here ? 

Alice. [At back-l You do not know me sir, but I am your 
daughter. 
6 



82 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Colonel Woodleigh. \_Tahing her in his arms.^ My child, 
me cheild ! [^Takes her face in his hands.^ Oh yes, I see it 
now. How like ! How like. 

Alice. I can see kindness and nobility in your face. The 
bravest, they say, are always the tenderest. Yonder is a heart 
that through years of silent anguish has beat for you alone. 
Have you no word for her ? 

[/S'/ie leads him forward L. c. He assumes a slightly theatri- 
cal attitude, mildly reminiscent of the old school. Folds 
his arms and contracts his brows. ^ 

Amelia. Reginakl, my husband, you see me at your feet, 
humbled and abashed. My love has not grown cold in all 
these anxious years. If all love for me is dead, then for the 
sake of our darling child, your child, can you not let the dead 
past bury its dead ? 

Colonel Woodleigh. Aye,and reap the Dead Sea's fruit,ashes, 
ashes, ashes. You did not bid me stay, while yet your voice 
had power upon me. But now, when glory and ambition 
have filled the heart where love once reigned supreme, you 
seek to win me from my new mistress. Fame ; is it not so ? 

Amelia. Cruel, cruel to the last. 
[_She sinks down humiliated. Colonel Woodleigh stands 
stiffly, not having looked at her. Alice comes bettveen 
them. She pulls his arms gently apart, taking his right 
hand in her left. Phillis and Carroll watch the 
scene with breathless interest. Colonel Alciiostra and 
Mrs. Marrigold closely observing Phillis and Goodall. 
As Alice tak'^s Colonel Woodleigh's hand, Mrs. Mar- 
REGOLD half leads, half forces Phillis up R. Alice, with- 
out turning, extends her right hand to take the hand of 
Amelia. Mrs. Marigold deftly places the hand of 
Phillis in that of Alice, gently urging Amelia aside. 
Action not seen by Alice or Colonel Woodleigh. 



A SON OF THESPLS. 83 

Amelia expresses surprise, bat retires quickly up R. All 
watch the scene ivith great interest. Spott is as/(?e/>.] 
Alice. Father, my father, this is the first time I have been 
permitted to see your face, to hear your voice,or touch your hand. 
But since my infant lips couhl frame a word, father has been 
first in my morning and evening prayers, pleading with the 
great Parent of all to spare your life, and restore you to those 
who loved you and waited your coming. Need I say who 
taught my childish lips those prayers ? And now that suffer- 
ing wife is kneeling at your feet. You are a brave soldier, 
the world has read of your heroic deeds, and history will 
blazon your name to posterity. But your noblest victory is 
yet to be achieved, for he who conquereth himself is far 
greater than he who taketh a city. 

Colonel Woodleigh. \^Aside.^ Had angels voices they would 
plead like this. 

[Alice places the hand of Phillis in that of Colonel Wood- 
leigh and retires up L. c] 

Phillis. William, ray darling, let me see your face. 
\_At sound of her voice Colonel Woodleigh starts. Alice, 
seeing Phillis, express great surprise, then watches both 
intently. ColoNel Woodleigh quickly recovers his the- 
atrical mann<ir.~\ 
(jolonel Woodleigh. Speak the text, don't interpolate. 

\_Prowpts her.~\ Reginald, dear Reginald 

Phillis. I do not ask forgiveness for a crime, for none has 
been committed. \_Asshe continues speaking. Colonel WooD- 
lkigh's face conveys his conflicting emotions.~\ We were both 
the victims of a terrible misapprehension. My poor father 
quickly learned it, and died praying for your forgiveness. 
And noAv you have come to justify a faith that has never 
wavered, to claim a love that has ripened with my sorrow and 
strengthened with the years. Will you not look into my face, 



84 A SON OF THESPIS. 

and take me in your arms? See our innocent daughter, who 

unconsciously placed my hand in yours, is pleading for a 

father's kiss. 

[Alice moves doivii on Colonel Woodleiuh's l. He looks 
at her half vacmifly, then ivith an effort faces Phillis. An 
exclamation^ half shriek, half groan, escapes him. He shud- 
ders, passes his liands across his eyes, looks again hitently 
at both, gasps, passes his hand to his left side with an 
expression of physical pain.^ 
Wallack. \ln a suppressed voic{\^ The old wound again. 

I feared it. 

[Colonel Woodleigh smiles vacantly, looks into thiir faces 
again and shakes his head.'\ 
Colonel W. [/n. delirium.^ Why will they torture me so 

cruelly ? For a moment the gates of Paradise stood ajar, and 

I saw — I saw — 

l^He ivceps. Music P. P., ^^Auld Lang Syne.'' 
Wallack. His mind is gone again. 

\^A shudder and half-suppressed " 0, no, no," by the entire 
group of characters. '\ 
Colonel Woodleigh. [ With an agonized expression.'\ Chaos 

is come again ! 

\^ffe sinks to the floor, supported by his wife and daughter. 
Characters all bend forward anxiously. ~\ 

CURTAIN. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 85 



ACT IV. 

Scene — Same as Act III. Mrs. Marrigold seated at woi-k 

basket L. Arthur at back on veranda, sketching. 

Mrs. Marrigold. What are you doing there, my son ? 

Arthur. I am sketching the prettiest picture I ever beheld. 

3Irs. Marrigold. Indeed ! What is it ? 

Arthur. I shall finish it shortly, and see whether you rec- 
ognize it. 

Mrs. Marrigold. \A8ide^ Little doubt of that ! Poor 
boy ! he can sketch but one face. 

Arthur. \_Coming forward.^ Here you are, mother. You 
are an art critic. What do you see there ? 

Mrs. Marrigold. [Taking sketch.^ I see a man seated upon a 
rustic bench beneath a spreading elm. At his feet two female 
figures, one on either side, both looking up into his face. They 
seem a happy group. One might be his wife, the other his 
daughter. Yes, I think I recognize the group. You have 
happily caught the face and figure of the daughter. 

Arthur. l^An'xiouslg.l Do you think so ? 

Mrs. Marrigold. Do I think so ? Why, I declare, the boy 
is blushing ! 

Arthur. Well, I'm not ashamed of it. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Quite right, my son ; never be ashamed 
of an honest affection. Dorothy is a girl worth waiting for. 

Arthur. Worth waiting for. Well I should say she is. 
But I don't want to wait for her. Any fellow could do that. 
I want to get her without waiting. 

3Irs. 3farrigold. Dear me ! What a violent first attack ! 
W^hy you are mere children yet? Dorothy is only seventeen. 

Arthur. And how old were you when you ran away from 
school and married pop ? 



86 A SON OF THESPTS. 

Mrs. Marrigold. How old was I ? why — how old — good 
gracious ! What a question ! Why, I was nearly eighteen. 

Arthur. Yes, and pop was nearly twenty-two ; you're a nice 
one to talk about waiting, you are. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Well, I declare ! I shall have to send 
you back to school again. 

Arthur. No, thank you. No more school for me. 

3frs. Marrigold. I intend to send you back to Columbia 
and make a lawyer of you. 

Arthur. Do you ! Well before I'm a lawyer you'll be a 
grandmother ! 

\_Arthur runs off C. laughing. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Great Heavens ! What is he talking 
about ! A grandmother, indeed ! Since that boy became a 
voter he seems to have grown a foot. Grandma, indeed ; 
Grandma ! Grandma ! After all, there's something sweet 
and musical in the name ! The happiest hours of my life were 
passed in teaching that boy's baby lips to say " mamma," and 
I shall live those hours all over again in teaching his baby's 
lips to say " Grandma." 
\_Enter Rube Hawkins c. witlt his '■''Sunday clothes'' on, 

'■^ biled shirt," etc. A modern Neiv England hay- seed. ^ 

Riibe. Good mornin'. 

Mrs. Marrigold. [^Rising.^ 0, good morning, Mr. Hawkins. 

Rube. Mr. Hawkins ! Pretty soon some one will get the 
esquire onto that, and then my head'll fill two townships. 

Mi's. Marrigold. Won't you be seated ? 

Rube. No, thank'ee, haven't time. I've brought a kind o' 
verbal message from the Texas Colonel. After he called here 
yesterday mornin' and found his friend, the actor chap, so 
well and strong, he came back to the house in high spirits. 
There he found a letter from New York, and the minute he 
read it, he looked at his watch, and saw that he had just time 
to make the 10.20 train. He told me to come up this mornin' 



A SON OP THESPLS. 87 

and say to you that if that Mr. Carroll should corae here any- 
time to-day, you should be sure to keep him here until he gits 
back to-day. 

Mrs. Mm-rigold. I understand, perfectly. The Colonel 
and yourself seem to have become fast friends. 

Rube. Yes. After I acted out that night he took a great 
shine to me. And when we all got back hum that night, and 
every one was a laughin' at me, he jest takes me by the hand 
and says, says he, never mind, Mr. Hawkins, says he, I've 
seen wuss actors than you in Texas, not many, but some. 

Mrs. Marrigold. No doubt he was right. 

Rube. And just as soon as Mr. Betterton was up and about, 
Mr. Wallack hired me and Phoebe, both, for regular sure- 
enough actors. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Is it possible ? 

Rube. Yes'm, and next week we're going to play Uncle 
Tom's Cabin in the schoolhouse at Baldwinsville. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Well, I declare ! 

Rube. Yes'm, and we've been working two days now on 
make-up and togs, a=! Mr. Wallack call 'em. 

Mrs. Marrigold. I have no doubt but we shall soon hear of 
you as a star, Mr. Hawkins. 

Rube. There she goes again, Mr. Hawkins. \_He slaps 
himself and starts suddenly.~\ \^Aside.'\ There goes one of 
my galluses. I knew something 'd bust if this thing didn't 
stop. Jest excuse me fer a minute, Mrs, Marrigold, I jest 
want to step outside and see if it looks like rain, 
\_Working up c, holdi^ig his trousers. Falls over apiece of 

furniture, and as he reaches veranda runs into Bernard 

Carroll, who enters l. c. Rube gives a significant gesture 

to Mrs. Marrigold and exits l. c] 

Carroll. Good morning, Mrs. Marrigold. I trust you will 
pardon my coming unannounced. 



<5» A SON OF THESPIS. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Don't mention it, Mr. Carroll ; this is 
Democracy Hall, you know. Be seated. 

Carroll. [^Sitting R.] Thank you. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Are you just up from New York. 

Carroll. This moment. And I grieve to say the bearer of 
ill news. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Ill news ! For me ? 

Carroll. No ; for your guests, Mr. and Mrs. Goodall. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Is it possible ? They must be spared for 
a time, at least. Only a week ago to-day this poor man 
returned to consciousness, and yesterday for the first time he 
ventured out of doors. 

Carroll. I am aware of that. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Indeed ? 

Carroll. That is to say, I knew, of course, that he had been 
quite unwell, following the unexpected meeting with his wife 
and daughter. 

Dorothy. \_Outside L. c] 0, papa, come and see this beau- 
tiful bed of pansies and forget-me-nots. 

Mrs. Marrigold. \_Rising, aside.^ '^'hey are coming. Mr. 
Carroll, may I ask you to step into the library for a time ? I 
have not the heart at present to see one shadow cross these 
happy faces. 
\_Music, '•'■Auld Lang Syne.'' Mrs. Marrigold and Carroll 

exit R. I. E. Enter from veranda Goodall, Phillis ayid 

Dorothy. He lias an arm about each. His costume similar 

to Act //.] 

Phillis. Now, you must sit down, Will, dear. 

Dorothy. Yes, you must. 

Goodall. Why will you foolish children try to make an inva- 
lid of me ? \^He sits.^] Oh, well, I am love's captive, and 
must e'ea bear with meekness her golden fetters. 

\_They are seated at his feet. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 89 

Dorothy. And I have a papa, a real papa, all my own. I 
often wondered why it was that I so loved to be near you, to 
look into your face and hear you call me your sweet Violet. 

Goodall. And now we know. 

Dorothy. Yes, now we know. 

Goodall. And now I know why each day I grew more anx- 
ious for your coming, and why the sky seemed brighter when 
you came. 

JPhillis. And for nearly a month we were within sound of 
each other's voices. 

Goodall. How long have I been ill ? 

JPhillis. Four weeks in all. 

Dorothy. For two weeks you were in a raging fever, and 
thought that you were in the spirit-world vainly seeking us. 
The fever all came from the old wound in your side, but the 
big bullet came away, and the doctor says the wound will never 
trouble you again. 

Dhillis. After two weeks you grew calmer, through exhaus- 
tion and showed symptoms of returning reason. 

Dorothy. Yes, and then they hurried mamma and I away 
from you. The doctor said that you must not see our faces at 
first, as it might undo all his Avork. 

Phillis. For a week your mind hovered on the verge of 
reason. 

' Dorothy. Yes, and still they wouldn't let us see you. But 
just a week ago to-day, after the doctor had gone, and there 
was no one in the room but that dear faithful Mr. Wallack, 
mamma and I opened the door gently. Your face was towards 
us, your eyes open. For a moment you stared at us, and 
then we were both frightened, but the next moment you 
smiled, and your eyes said " come to me." We knelt at your 
bed side, and kissed you, then you kissed mamma's hand and 
whispered "Phillis," then you kissed mine and said, " My sweet 
Violet." 



90 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Pliillis. And then we knew that God had given you back to us. 

CroodaU. When all else had failed, love came. 

Phillis. And then your strength returned as if by magic. 

Dorothy. Yes, and your appetite, too. And that doctor 
wanted to starve you on gruel. But each day, as soon as he 
was out of the room Mrs. Marrigold would broil a big porter- 
house steak, and then we'd all sit around the bed and watch 
you eat it. And in the evening the doctor would come in, 
feel your pulse, and look wise, and say we might put a few 
drops of beef extract in your gruel, and we all nearly choking 
trying to keep from laughing. 

GoodaU. Now, don't abuse the doctors. If they cannot 
always perform miracles, they can at least entertain us, while 
nature is fighting the enemy. 

\_Enter Mrs. Marrigold r. i. e. 

Mrs. Marrigold. \^Aside.'\ I don't wonder the picture 
inspired Arthur. 

Croodall. [/2m/?^.] Our hostess. 

Mrs. Mari'igold. Still sweet-hearting ! Why, look at the 
color in his face. 

Dorothy. I was just telling mamma that he looks almost as 
young and handsome as he did in the play, with his wig and 
uniform on. 

G-oodall. Throw physic to the dogs. I am more favored 
than the Thane of Cawdor, for I have found the antidote for a 
mind diseased. 
[ The lights behind the arches darken, and a distant peal of 

thunder is heard. 1^ 

Dorothy. [^Running up c] 0, dear I there's a storm coming 
up. See how dark it's getting, and this evening we were to 
have our dinner on the lawn. 

3Irs. 3Iarrigold. The clouds are gathering, but let us hope 
that they will pass us, for this day at least. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 91 

Goodall. Life is to-day so full of sunlight that we can laugh 
away a few passing clouds. 

Mrs. Marrigold. I want you good people to amuse your- 
selves for a time in the music room. 

Dorothy. All right ! Come, papa, and I'll sing to you about 
the girl you left behind you. 

FJullis. But he found her waiting when he returned. 

Croodall. I found two of them. 

Dorothy. [^Throwing her arms about his neck and kissing 
]iim.~\ Then I'll sing it twice. 

[Dorothy and Goodall exiti.. i. e. 

Phillis. Madge, dear, something has happened ; I saw it 
in your face the moment you came in. Have you had bad 
news 't 

Mrs. Marrigold. Nothing of importance, dear. Tell me, 
has Colonel Alchostra not yet told you the character of the 
important information he has to impart? 

Phillis. No. He expected to have told me on the evening 
of the play, but the unexpected ending of the scene and poor 
Will's terrible illness prevented. Since then he has assured 
me that as soon as Will was on his feet again he would give 
us a pleasant surprise. He is engaged in some kind of an 
investigation, and is not yet quite ready to "show his hand," 
as he expresses it. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Then we may rest easy that when Colonel 
Tom does show his hand, it will contain both bowers and the 
ace. 

Phillis. I fear, Madge, dear, that partiality biases you just 
a little in the direction of the handsome Texan. 

Mrs. Marrigold. What nonsense you do talk. 

Phillis. Do, I ? Do you know, dear, that in our own happi- 
ness we are liable to forget that our youngsters are no longer 
children ? 



92 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Yes, I've been reminded of it quite 
recently. 

Phillis. Poor Arthur is in the garden, a picture of dejec- 
tion, and Dora actually sighed as we passed him. I'm going 
to send her out to cheer him up a bit. \_Exit Phillis r. i. e. 
Colonel Alchostra enters Ij. c. hurriedy]. 

Colonel Alchostra. Good morning, my dear Mrs. Marri- 
gold; you will pardon me for running in like a wild animal, 
but I wah a little anxious. Mr. Carroll has been here ? 

3Irs. Marrigold. He is there. 

Colonel Alchostra. Good ; I came on the same train, but 
had some papers to get befo' coming up. Goodall still grows 
stronger ? 

Mrs. 3Iarrigold. Yes, indeed ; he's like his old self to-day. 

Colonel. How could it be otherwise ? With such nursing, I 
fancy I should want to be an invalid indefinitely. 

Mrs. 3Iar7'igold. How can we manage to get you on the 
sick list. Colonel ? 

Colonel. I hardly know, I am so beastly well. There is a 
way, however. 

Mrs. Marrigold. Indeed ? 

Colonel. Yes, ma'm. It is what lawyers would call a pre- 
misable case. Now, premising that I should summon the 
courage to ask you to grant me a great boon and you should 
decline — then I should decline from that moment. 

Mrs. Mari'igold. Dear me ! Then I must avoid the respon- 
sibility of driving you into a decline. 

Colonel. Say no moah, my dear Mrs. Marrigold, say no moah ! 
At the proper time I shall confess judgment and throw 
myself on the mercy of the coat. But now we must think of 
others. 

Mrs. Marrigold. True, our dear friends there. 



A SON OF THESPI8. 93 

Colonel. In these beautiful rooms, one month ago, we wit- 
nessed the second act of a domestic drama. To-day I hope 
to present tlie " last scene of all that ends this strange event- 
ful history," as Mr. Shakespeare puts it. 

3lrs. Marrigold. If the end brings happiness to our friends 
I shall owe you a debt of gratitude. 

Colonel. And I shall expect payment on demand. 

[Dorothy and Arthur appear c. 

Mrs. Marrigold. I shall always honor my note of hand. 

\_She gives him her hand. He kisses it. 

Colonel. 0, my deah Mrs. — 

[fle is about to take her in his arms. 

Dorothy and Arthur. Change for Texas ! 

3Irs. Marrigold What was that ? 

Colonel. I distinctly heard some one say, Change for Texas. 
[Mrs. Marrigold goes up r. protesting with Arthur in 

dumb show. Arthur laughing at her. Dorothy comes 

down c. to Colonel.] 

Dorothy. Do you remember the time you told us to " change 
kears ? " We are even with you now. 

Colonel. Even ! I think we owe you one. 

Dorothy You're a very lucky man to Avin such a prize. 
Auntie Marrigold might take her choice from among the best 
in the land. 

Colonel. \_Sivelling with satisfaction.'] Of course ! Of course! 
She has, no doubt, many admirers. 

Dorothy. Admirers ! Well, I should say so. Twice as many 
as any of the young girls, and she does enjoy teasing them. 
But the funniest affair of all was last summer. Arthur brought 
one of his college chums up here, and he fell desperately in 
love with auntie. She laughed at him at first, but it was a 
real'serious case. Then she tried to reason with him. The 
idea of trying to reason with a man who is in love ! Then he 
wrote poetry about her. Then he said that he would commit 



94 A SON OF THESPIS. 

suicide. Finally he actually urged her to elope with him. 
Then auntie took him into the library and gave him a good 
scolding, but that only made him worse. Finally she said to 
him: "Why, Willie, I'm old ei)Ough to be your mother. I 
can't marry you, but if you insist upon becoming a member of 
the family, why I'll adopt you." \^They both laugh heai'tlly.'] 
Arthur and I were both behind a screen listening, and when 
she said that we just pushed the screen over and roared. 
\^They laugh heartily. ~\ 

[Mrs. Marrigold and Arthur advance l. 

3Irs. Marrigold. Young lady, are you telling tales out of 
school ? 

Dorothy. 0, no, Auntie. 

Colonel. ^[Imitating Dorothy's tone.'] 0, no, Aun — No ! 
No! No! 

Dorothy. No, indeed. I was just telling the Colonel how 
glad I am that he is to be one of the family — I mean — I mean 
— you know what I mean. 

Colonel. Certainly, of course. 

Dorothy. I mean that, next to my mamma, I have loved my 
Auntie Marrigold, better than anyone in the world. \_She 
kisses Mrs. Marrigold.] And I love you, sir, because you 
have been the means of bringing a great joy into our home 
and our hearts. 

Colonel. No, child, no. We have all been humble instru- 
ments in the hands of Providence. But our mission is still 
unfulfilled, [x. l.] With your permission, Mrs. Marrigold, 
I will prepare Mr. and Mrs. Goodall for the new trial which 
is before them. [Uxit Colonel Alchostra l. i. e. 

Dorothy. You are not angry with me, auntie ? 

Mrs. Marrigold. Angry ! Could I be angry with a sun- 
beam ? 
[She kisses Dorothy, and Arthur and Dorothy run out c. 

Bernard Carroll enters R. i. e.] 



A SON OF THESPIS. 95 

Carroll. My time is limited, Mrs. Marrigold, and, unpleas- 
ant as my mission is, I think it best that I should see the 
unfortunate man at once. 

3Irs. 3Iarrigolld. If you will excuse me I will advise them 
of your presence. \_Exit Mrs. Marrigold, l. i. e. 

Carroll. It is a bold game, but, in its success lies my only 
security. I am confident that (loodall's appearance here was 
purely accidental ; yet, some secret eye is prying into the 
past. Strange that nothing further has ever been heard of 
that mysterious advertiser in the Herald. \_He sits L. Spott 
enters c, very extravagant suit^ tight-fitting trick coat to split 
up hack. 

Spott. Ah ! here we are again, as they say at the circus. 
I had orders to keep out of sight until wanted, but I couldn't 
resist the desire to get a peep at the charming widow. \_Sees 
Carroll.] Great Scott ! 

Carroll. [^iSurprised.^ What has brought you here, sir? 

Spott. A powerful motive, sir. 

Carroll. Motive? What motive? 

Spott. With apologies to the chestnut man, it was a loco- 
motive? 

Carroll. You're an ass. 

Spott. Am I? Thank you. You've said that once or 
twice before. However, the ass is a patient animal. Were 
you ever kicked by an ass? 

Carroll. No, but I have been barked at by a jackal. [^Going 
up c] What brings that fellow here ? 

Spott. Funny fellow, that. It is astonishing how short- 
sighted some of these smart alecks are. 
[Spott retires up G.and quietly exits c. Enter l. i. e.,Goodall, 

PiiiLLrs,MRS. Marruiold, Colonel Alchostra. Goodall 

carries a large 3fss. which he is reading. Carroll advances ; 

all bow.~\ 



96 A SON OF THE8PIS. 

Croodall. You have a communication of some character for 
me, sir ? 

Carroll. Had we not better confer alone ? 

Goodall. You can have notliing to say to me, sir, that I 
should be unwilling for these dear friends to hear. 

Carroll. As you will, sir. My task is a most unpleasant 
one, but none the less a duty to you and to* myself. Notwith- 
standing your crime, wiiich wrecked the firm of Merrill &. 
Carroll, my personal feelings toward you and yours have been 
of the kindest. In that spirit I now hasten to warn you of a 
threatening danger, and to suggest a means of avoiding it. 

Goodall. Had I a thousand ears I'd hear thee. 

Carroll. By some unfortunate means, your identity, so long 
successfully concealed, has become known in New York, as 
well as your presence here. 

Goodall. We are aware of that fact. Also, that for a month 
a detective has been watching this place. [Carroll starts.'] 
Placed here, no doubt, by some kind, thoughtful friend like 
yourself. So far you have told us nothing new. 

Carroll. The heirs and survivors of some of the families 
wrecked by your crimes have determined to secure your arrest 
and prosecution. I am here to urge upon you the wisdom of 
avoiding this arrest and exposure, which must bring disgrace 
and humiliation to those dear to you. 

Goodall. And what do you advise ? 

Carroll. There is but one course — flight and residence abroad. 

Goodall. Flight ! From what ? From whom ? 

Carroll. From the vengeance of those who have determined 
upon your prosecution. Your arrest will certainly follow 
within the next twelve hours. Under a foreign government 
you can live in securety. If I may do so without offending, I 
will willingly place means at your disposal, to be repaid at your 
convenience. 



A SON OF THESPIS. ~ 97 

Goodall. Is there on record a court decision pronouncing 
me a criminal ? 

Carroll. Not exactly. But the overwhelming evidence, 
added to your own confession, flight and subsequent career 
under an assumed name, would seem to constitute a prima 
facie case. 

Goodall. 0, learned judge ! A Daniel come to judgment! 
And may I now ask what motive has moved you to this gener- 
ous action ? 

Carroll. Sympathy for an erring man, and profound respect 
for the lady who bears his name. 

Goodall. Have you done ? 

Carroll. I think I have said enough. 

Goodall. So say we all. Now to answer in extenso. I shall 
not go into exile at present. I am, first of all things, sir, an 
American, native and to the manner born, and this country is 
quite good enough for me. 

Carroll. Then I must apologize for trying to be your friend. 
I wish you all good day. 
[ffe st'irts up, Dorothy and Arthur enter c. and advance l. 

Goodall. A word before you go. \_Ile motions Carroll to a 
seat. He 8its.~\ Let us nothing extenuate or set down aught 
in malice. I have done the State some service, and they know 
it. Your anxiety lest I should have to do the State more 
service of an involuntary character places me under an obliga- 
tion, and, beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks. Yet I 
am not ungrateful. To prove it, I will read you a scene from 
my new drama. The play will be called, After Many Years. 

It tells the story of a Federal soldier, who was wounded in 
battle ; a Confederate officer carried him tenderly to the 
hospital. At the end of the war, the Federal and Confederate 
soldiers became fast friends, and for many years were in 
business together in Texas. One day the Northerner was 
stricken with a fever. He felt it to be fatal. He summoned 
7 



98 A SON OF THESPIS. 

friends who were near and said : " I am called for the last 
muster. The name by which you have known me is not my 
own. Take down my dying confession and have it witnessed 
that I may swear to it while my mind is clear. In New York 
City, in 1861, I was book-keeper for a banking firm. I 
committed forgery for a small amount. The junior partner 
discovered my crime, but, instead of exposing me, he held it 
over my head, compelling me to sign innumerable documents. 
By these forgeries the bank was wrecked, but all available 
funds had been transferred to the private fortune of the junior 
partner. Those forgeries were charged to an innocent man, who, 
indignant and humiliated, entered the army, leaving a bride 
and her unborn child. For two years I suifered the torments 
of the damned. Then I wrote the man who had ruined me 
that I had resolved to tell the truth and take my punishment, 
which he must share. He wrote me to meet him that night, 
which 1 did. For an hour we walked through dark, silent 
streets. At midnio-ht we were seated on an old East River 
pier. He offered bribes, which I refused. Suddenly I felt a 
sharp, stinging pain in my left side, under the shoulder blade, 
The next thing that I remembered was lying on a rude bench, 
surrounded by strange men. I had been picked up by a 
boat's crew. I was then on board a coasting schooner bound 
for the Chesapeake. Believing that I was about to die, I 
called for pen and paper, and told this story exactly as related 
here; I signed it, and the captain and crew witnessed it. But 
I was not then to die. On my recovery, knowing the folly of 
a man who is poor and friendless contending with one who 
was rich and powerful, I entered the Federal army under an 
assumed name. The rest you know. 

[Carroll lias been listening with breatJdess interest. 

Carroll. [^Half suppressed.'] My God ! 

\_All look at Carroll. 



A SON OF THESPIS. 9.9 

Goodall. Mr. Carroll is not well. Does the plot of the 
drama weary you ? 

Carroll. \^Calmly.~\ 0, not at all ; I'm quite interested. 

Qolonel Alchostra. We thought you would like it. 

Carroll. But, really, as it is nearly train time, I fear I must 
tear myself away. 

Gfoodall. The climax is yet to come. The dying man's 
confession concludes as follows : " The banking firm was 
that of Merrill k Carroll. The name of the falsely accused 
man was William Goodall; the name of the junior partner and 
my would-be assassin was Bernard Carroll. 

" Signed : Philip Hawley. 

" Witnesses : 

" Thomas Alchostra, 

" Moses J. Mason, 

"John Soto. 
^^ Alchostra Ranch, near Austin, May 4^th, 1879.'' 

Carroll. Really, Mr. Goodall, your cleverness in conceiving 
thrilling climaxes is equalled only by your skill in reciting 
them. 

Goodall. Praise from Sir Hubert is praise, indeed. 

Carroll. But, seriously, the plot of your drama is absurdly 
weak, in presuming that a dead man's confession, unsupported 
by corroborative evidence, would give your hero any standing 
in a court of law. 

Goodall. Aye, there's the rub. You are a close observer 
and an intelligent critic. The one thing to corroborate the 
dying man's confession would be the confession made in 1863 
on board the schooner, or the evidence of some person there 
present. [Spott e^iter l. c. 

Colonel Alchostra. Possibly our detective friend can supply 
a link that will strengthen the plot. 

Spott. \_Coming fortoard R.] Leave everything to me. 
[Spott reads from memo.~\ Captain Sturgis, of schooner 



100 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Martha Hale, and James Dean, second officer, both now living 
at Bangor, Maine. Both remember the incident perfectly, 
and will testify at any time. But have no knowledge of the 
written confession, as they did not see it after witnessing it. 

Carroll. I fear, Mr. Goodall, you will have to invent a new 
plot for your drama. This one is theatrical, but not novel, and 
you fail to preserve the unities. But really you must excuse 
me. \_He starts up c. 

Goodall. One moment ; we are coming to the unities. 

Spott. Leave everything to me. [Spott reads.'] Memo- 
randa : From records of Ketchem & Workem ; file, 13, 1863. 
The confession herewith attached was bought from a sailor ; 
no name given ; written on bill of lading of schooner Martha 
Hale ; price paid, $50 ; N. Q.: no questions ; K. D.: keep dark, 
B. M. L. 0. : big money later on. \_Speaks.] The firm of 
Spott & Bleedem succeeded to the business and records of 
Ketchem & Workem in 1872. The late Workem was my hon- 
ored father-in-law. Excuse this tear. A satisfactory consid- 
eration having been paid, Colonel Thomas Alchostra is now in 
absolute possession of the confession referred to ; also the letter 
written by Bernard Carroll on April 30, 1863, to Philip 
Hawley, requesting the interview. 

Carroll. [To Spott.] You miserable cur ! 

Spott. Don't call names. We are both in it for what there 
is in it, only you got more than I did. 

Carroll. Have I not rewarded your miserable services with 
princely generosity? 

Spott. You have. I may say that you ante'd blindly, but 
the Texas Colonel straddled the blind, and raised the ante. 
[Carroll sinks into a seat. Spott goes up c, and quietly 

sits at table on which is decanter a7id glasses. During rest 

of scene he filh up and goes to sleep.] 

Goodall. [x'ingto Carroll.] You see, we have not forgotten 
the unities. Mr. Carroll, the great joy that to-day fills this 



A SON OP THESPIS. 101 

househould leaves in our hearts no room for anger, resentment 
or revenge. You will be allowed one week in which to make 
restitution to the daughter of Warren Merrill. You best 
know the amount of which you robbed her father. Restore it 
and go your way in peace. These documents will secure your 
good conduct in the future. 

CaiToll. By this act, you leave me without a weapon of 
aggression or defense. Within forty-eight hours the restitu- 
tion shall be complete. I beg that you will allow me to with- 
draw. 
\_G-oodall steps aside and motions Carroll to depart. All 

rise and incline their heads, as he makes his exit R. I. E. 

Mrs. Marrigold. That was nobly done, Mr. Goodall. 

Dorothy. I hope he will appreciate it. 

Phillis. He will. It is never too late to mend. 

Colonel Alchostra. And while the lamp holds out to burn 
the vilest sinner will continue business at the old stand, or 
words to that effect. 
[Unter L. c. Phcebe, Rube and Wallace. Ph(Ebe is 

extravagantly/ made up for Aunt Ophelia, Wallace for 

Marks, and Rube, ludicrously, for Lagree. They drop doivn 

into K. COR. Wallace carries his champagne basket on 

which he sits. Other characters are all L. 

Wallack. Me lord, the players have come. 

Groodall. Ah ! the tragedians of the city. How chances it 
they travel ? 

Wallack. This is a little summer snap. Colonel, we are 
here to offer our congratulations upon your recovery, and to 
say au revoir before starting en tour. 

Goodall. En tourl 

Wallack. Yes, Colonel. In these happily changed condi- 
tions, you will not require the services of a manager, agent, 
valet, stage director, property man, and factotum in ordinary, 



102 A SON OF THESPIS. 

hence I resign those numerous functions. To-morrow, at 
Baldwinsville, we begin rehearsals of Uncle Tom's Cabin. 

Phoehe. Yes, I'm to play five characters, including Little 
Eva and Aunt Ophelia. 

Wallaek. I shall assume my great role of Marks the Law- 
yer, doubling Gumption Cute and Fletcher incidentally. 

Rube. Yes, sir, and I'm to play — what do I play ? 

Wallaek. You play the donkey and Lagree, sir. 

Rube. Yes, I play the donkey and the greaser. 

Wallaek. Who said greaser ? 

Rube. You did. 

Wallaek. I said Lagree, sir. 

Rube. That's what I said, the greaser. 

Phoebe. Yes, and we just came up to let you see our new 
costumes. 

Goodall. You are welcome, masters, welcome all. [ To Rube, 
who wears a long chin whisker.^ Thy face is valanced since I 
saw thee last. Comest thou to beard us in Denmark ? 

Rube. \^To Wallace.] What do I say now ? 

Wallaek. Say nothing. The donkey don't talk. 

Rube. Oh ! 

Gfoodall. [To Phcebe.] Your ladyship is nearer heaven 
than when I saw thee last, by the altitude of a chopin. 
\^Ref erring to her high poke bonnet.~\ You are welcome to 
Elsinore. \_Taking Wallace's hand.~\ You have been as 
one in suifering all that suffers nothing. A man whom for- 
tune's buffets and rewards has taken with equal thanks. You 
shall star, but not in Uncle Tom. Perish the thought. I will 
present you with the manuscript of my new war drama. 

Wallaek. Very kind of you Colonel, but there seems to be 
a glut of war plays, and, as walking is bad, we'll stick to the 
old chestnut. 

Phillis. Will, dear, you are likely to lose your daughter 
almost as soon as found. 



A SON OF THESPIS 103 

Groodtxll. I guessed it. To lovej to marrv and to be given 
in marriage is the divine law ; so be it. In your young loves, 
my own lost youth breathes musical. 

Wallack. \^Half aside.~\ The only Richelieu. 

Ruhe. \^To Ph(EBE.] Who was Richelieu? 

Plioehe. He wrote Uncle Tom. 

Rube. 0. \^?(iTT rises and looks about ; he s half drunk. 

Spott. This happy family have lost sight of their benefactor. 
\_Oomes fonvard R. c. effusively.^ Ah, ladies ! Permit me to 
congratulate this happy family. 

Wallack. He has escaped from the happy family. 

Phoebe. He looks it. 

Spott. 'S'appy family upon this ausp — auspi — hospital occa- 
sion. Don't thank me, I simply did my duty. I have cast 
my bread upon the waters — upon the waters — waters. 

Colonel. Cast your bread upon the waters, and after many 
days the sharks will get it, or words to that effect. 

Spott. 'Zactly ! I knew it, but I forgot it. Mrs. Marrigold, 
I am proud to grasp you by the hand. [Spott crosses l., tries 
to take Mrs. M's. hand. She turns jrom him.^ Your hand, 
under these 'sappy circu — cir — circuses. Should you at any 
future time require the services of a man of observation, 
sobriety and discretion, leave everything to me. 
[ZTe has been fumbling for a card, which he shoves in her face. 

Colonel. [^Coming behind Sfot:t.~\ Excuse me, ladies ; this 
annoys you. I will remove it. 
[Colonel takes Spott by coat collar and throws him around 

C. Trick coat opens up back. Collar and cravat fly off. 

Colonel drags Idm up c. and tJirows him bodily over the 

veranda and quietly returns. ~\ 

Mrs. Marrigold. Why, Colonel, do you not fear this fellow's 
resentment ? 



104 A SON OF THESPIS. 

Colonel Alchostra. 0, no, ma'am ; he belongs to that class 
which we throw out when we are done using them. He's used 
to it, ma'am. 

Dorothy. [^Running up C, then returning.^ Mamma! papa! 
See ! all of the clouds have passed away, and there wasn't a 
drop of rain after all the thunder. 

Colonel. The thunder was a big bluff, and it didn't go. 

Dorothy. The sun is shining brightly ; the birds are sing- 
ing beautifully ; we can have our dinner under the trees after 
all, can't we. Auntie ? 

Mrs. Marrigold. Yes, dear. 

Dorothy. 0, won't it be jolly ! There's not a cloud left in 
the sky. 

Groodall. And so the shadow passes from our lives. Let us 
throw wide each window of our hearts, that love's sunlight 
may enter in, \_Music p. p. ^^Auld Lang Syne.'' 

Groodall. [^Suddenly .~\ Yet stay ! An inspiration ! That 
nothing may be wanting that could add to the general joy of 
the whole company, I will read to you my new drama. 
\_IIe reaches for Mss. Wallack groans. Music swells forte. 

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